


For Want of Him

by thelittlestpurplecat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Asshole!Brock Rumlow, Awkward Romance, Barebacking, Beard Burn, Biting, Bottom Bucky, Bottom Steve, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Bucky tries really hard to be romantic, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Couch Sex, Depression, Derogatory Language, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Hand Jobs, I'll see myself to the trash can, Kissing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Rough Kissing, Sexual Abuse, Stucky endgame, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Bucky, Top Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 103,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3961051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestpurplecat/pseuds/thelittlestpurplecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the twenty-first century, and Steve Rogers has never been more alone. Everything he knew, everyone he loved, is now gone, and a dark, bitter loneliness claws at him, raking bleeding gashes into his heart.<br/>And then there's Brock Rumlow.<br/>Rumlow is like salt in his wounds; vicious, and cruel. But his dark brown hair and teasing smirk reminds Steve of someone long dead, and his New York accent sounds like home...He's a soldier like him...he understands. And Steve makes the fatal mistake of trusting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. T-23 Hours to Lemurian Star Incident

Steve collapsed to the mattress with a ragged gasp, his body aching, and burning, stretched wide from the brutal penetration. He could feel the bruises pressed into the flesh of his hips and ass, and his body was suddenly taken with shivers as his partner's breath huffed, low, and hot across the back of his neck. Steve's eyes dropped closed, a little smile touching the corners of his kiss swollen lips, and for just a moment, he could imagine he was somewhere else; a frigid little apartment in Brooklyn. He could imagine he was frail, and sickly, the weight braced overtop of him belonging to-

"Up and att'em, Rogers." Rumlow growled in his ear, his lips curled up in a smirk, dark, deep set eyes glimmering with lust as he drank in the sight of the man below him. Rogers was a fucking _wonder_. He was built like a god and, if provoked, could probably break him in two; yet he lay underneath him, shivering, and whining like a bitch. Not that Brock was complaining. Steve had put up a goddamn fuss, but once he'd finally broken, and let Brock dominate him completely, Rumlow had decided that this was how he wanted him _all the time._ He wanted Rogers on his knees, bound and blindfolded, kissing his fucking feet every moment they were alone.

At the sound of Rumlow's voice, the fragment of a memory shattered, the shrapnel stripping raw the thin scabs that he sometimes allowed to heal over the wounds of his loss. He could forget the life and loved ones that had been ripped away from him - _sometimes_ \- but it never lasted. Steve dragged in a deep breath, and forced his eyes open, accepting his surrounding. He was in his apartment in Washington DC. It was the twenty-first century, and it was Brock Rumlow's hot breath on his neck...not Bucky's. Hissing a breath through his teeth, Steve's aching fingers slowly released their death grip on the bunched, sweaty sheets. Sometimes he forgot how rough Brock was...then he was viciously reminded. Rumlow never let him forget for long. The blond rolled his shoulder forward with a tight moan, exhaling through his flushed, wet lips. " _Fuck_..." Steve whispered hoarsely, his throat raw from the screams that Rumlow wrenched from his lungs.

Smirking, the dark haired man lifted his heavy, familiar weight off of Steve's back, giving his raw ass a vicious _smack_ with the flat of his leathery hand. "Don't be a bitch," he scoffed with a grin, stepping to the floor and bending to fuss through the pockets of his discarded pants. "I _know_ you've taken it harder up the ass then that." Rumlow straightened, a lighter and cigarette in hand.

Still aching, Steve shifted painfully over onto his side, holding his weight on his elbow as he glanced up at Rumlow. "You know I hate it when you smoke in my house." He pointed out, his brow drawn as the sweat cooled on his skin, cheeks still vividly pink as his breathing began to even out.

"And you know I don't give a shit." Rumlow retorted, gritting the roll of paper between his teeth and clicking the lighter on, setting the tip of the cig smoldering. Dragging in a deep breath, Rumlow held the smoke in his lungs, before meeting Steve's gaze and exhaling the toxic smelling cloud into the air. It was worth it to watch Steve's nose wrinkle, his brow drawing into a frown. This was part of the fun. Seeing how far he could push Steve; how much he would let him get away with.

After a moment, Steve dropped his gaze, giving it up. He'd be sleeping with the windows open to air out the smoke again tonight. As Rumlow closed his heavily lidded eyes, enjoying a deep drag of the cigarette, Steve pulled himself upright, his body aching with protest. He exhaled, deep, and low, tugging a few tissues free of the box on the nightstand and wiping at the mess smeared all over his hipbones. He was going to have to change the sheets before he slept tonight.

When he glanced up, Brock was already half dressed.

"You're leaving?" Steve asked evenly, his tone neutral, but a dull ache stirred in his gut. Rumlow never stayed long, but Steve kept hoping that maybe one day he wouldn't leave him to spend the night alone.

"Got a problem with it?" Rumlow asked, pinching the cig between his thumb and forefinger and using the smoldering stub to light the next one, before dropping it onto Steve's carpet and crushing out the ember with the leathery heel of his foot.

The ache in Steve's gut grew more acute, but he forced a casual shrug. "Got somewhere else to be?" He asked, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he offered him a hopeful optimistic smirk.

But Steve's optimism was greeted with a foul bark of derisive laughter. "Well, if you think I'm gonna waste my time _cuddling_ with you like your little bitchboy, than I've got some news for you." He scoffed, watching Steve's smile soften at the edges, his gaze dropping just a hair as his expression shifted to seasoned disappointment. And then he recovered, jumping track as though he'd meant something different entirely.

" _Cuddling?_ I was thinking more along the lines of round two, but- whatever floats your boat."

"Yer full of shit, Rogers." Rumlow gritted, the second cigarette still clenched in his teeth as he flashed him a grin, fixing the button of his pants.

Forcing a bitter little smile, Steve dropped back onto the bed, resigning himself to another night alone. It seemed that _alone_ was how he was supposed to be. Sleeping alone in a hard cot, as narrow as his own, boney shoulders. Sleeping alone on the cold, packed earth, adjusting to the size of his new body as bombs burst in the distance; in a bed of ice, frozen, utterly desolate. And now in a bed, too soft for his body, which was so accustom to thin mattresses with springs that dug into his bones, and hard earth, and unforgiving ice. Steve would give _anything_ to sleep with another's warm body curled around his own, but he would never get that from Rumlow.

But all the same, Steve appreciated what they had. Steve wasn't in love with Rumlow, and Rumlow sure as _hell_ wasn't in love with him, but what they had was predictable, and it offered just a _taste_ of intimacy Steve craved, even on a superficial level. It had started with teasing on missions, moving quickly to training together, and sparring matches that ended with hot, rough make out sessions on the gym floor; Rumlow's hands pinning his wrists about his head, sharp, canine-like teeth scraping at his neck as their sweaty bodies ground together, breath coming in ragged, heady gasps. Brock had been his first kiss since the 1940's, dragged by his jaw into a rough, dominating kiss after a mission left their bodies surging with adrenaline and pent up aggression.

Now, whatever they had between them had become normal. Brock came back to Steve's place with him after work at S.H.I.E.L.D. dragging him to the bedroom or pinning him against the wall in the hallway. Somedays, they didn't even make it out of the car. Rumlow would fuck him, rough, and filthy, leaving Steve aching, and burning with pain before leaving him, sometimes without so much as another word. Sometime he would linger long enough to smoke a cigarette or two, exchanging teasing jabs that sometimes stung a little _too_ much; but he never stayed long.

Still, it was better than being alone. Rumlow was a soldier like him. He knew what it was like. He'd had to do things he wasn't happy about, and he'd probably lost a few people too; just like Steve. If nothing else, they understood each other. And Steve _trusted_ him.

Crushing out the second cigarette, and leaving its crinkled stub on the carpet along with the first, Rumlow swept his shirt up off the floor, not bother to pull it on. Might as well give Rogers something to look at. The other man was laying back on the bed, watching him, but not with a hungry stare of lust. His expression was soft, caught between trust, and quite disappointment. It made Rumlow's gut turn.

Abruptly, Brock turned his back to Steve, and stalked out of the room. He hated when Steve would _look_ at him like that, but at the same time, it stirred something sadistic in his gut. It was written all over Steve's expression; he wanted more than an emotionless fuck, but knew full well that he wouldn't get that from Rumlow. But he hoped, oh _god_ he hoped, and Rumlow had toyed around with the idea of tugging at that hope once and a while. But for now, Brock dismissed the notion. He didn't have time for playing house with Captain America, so he strode from the room, knowing Steve would follow him. He alway did. Like a fucking _dog_.

The blond's footfalls were soft behind him, drifting, still clinging to his stupid optimism. He wanted Brock to stay, craved his company even if it chafed his ragged emotions like sand paper. He was tired of being alone.

"Drink?" Steve asked absently, walking to the door way of the kitchen, the soft light from the interior of the other room lighting the muscular contours of his naked body, and Brock stilled. If he wanted him to stay, he'd picked a solid argument. After nearly six months of their pseudo-relationship, after six months of Rumlow using him like a fucking _sex toy_ and leaving him, gasping, and debauched on the bed, Steve had found the right words to make him stay.

But not tonight.

As appealing as the idea of kicking his feet up on the table, and being served a drink by a gorgeous, naked man was, Rumlow knew he was in for a busy next day. Sometimes, being on the less savory side for power had its perks. For example; Brock knew that within the next twenty four hours, S.H.I.E.L.D. would be tipped into a frenzy as the Lemurian Star, and all its occupants were taken hostage. With top men like Sitwell on board, they would be sure to launch a rescue, and he was sure to be part of it, along with Romanoff and Cap. These were the things that Steve didn't know yet; that _S.H.I.E.L.D_ didn't know yet. So, as much as Rumlow wanted to savor a good drink, and an even better fuck, he was going to have to decline. 

Turning away from the entrance, Rumlow drifted back over to Steve, the blond still poised in the door way of the kitchen. He was still going to leave, but Steve didn't need to know that right away. Rumlow slipped up behind him, his hands slidding around the front of Steve's hips, calloused fingers brushing over the bruises that his enhanced body was already working on healing.

 _"Mmmhhhh.._.." He hummed, low, and filthy in Steve's ear, pressing his body flush against Rogers, his leathery hand curling around the other man's cock as he closed his lips over his earlobe. "You know how to tempt me, don't you?" He growled.

Rumlow's words send a thrill of pleasure through Steve's body, his rough hand stroking his member to hardness as Steve's fingers gripped into the wood of the doorway. A groan escaped his parted lips, and Steve let his head drop back against Rumlow's shoulder, his breath catching in his throat. 

"You want me to stay for a drink?" He whispered, his voice rough, and heady as he breathed the words into Steve's ear. He jerked his cock roughly, dragging a high whine from his lover's lips. " _Hmm?"_ He demanded, biting sharply below his ear as Steve's fingers loosed from the doorframe, dropping back to shakily grip at the front of Brock's thighs. "You want me to stay?"

"Not- exactly throwing you out the door-" Steve panted before Rumlow bit his throat hard enough to make him stifle a gasp of pain. " _Yes_ -" He blurted shortly, his grip tightening on his thighs as Brock's teeth sunk into the thin skin of his neck. "Yes- I want you to stay- please-" he rasped, trembling as Rumlow's thumb pressed into his messy slit, rubbing through the milky precome beading there.

"Needy little bitch..." Brock murmured to himself, as Steve squirmed against his body, a low gasp escaping him as the other man tugged his cock, biting, and sucking at his throat. _Fuck_ Brock loved it. The delicious thing was, was that even though Steve was, in theory, well over ninety, by Steve's body clock, he was only twenty seven. Rumlow was -in that regard- his senior by over a decade, and having someone so young, and soft, and fresh, stirred something primal, and ugly in Rumlow's gut. _He wanted to ruin him._ Steve was by no means the blushing virgin he had been painted as; the last remaining symbol of America's golden innocence and such, but he didn't have the kind of experience Rumlow had either. Brock knew how to fuck dirty, and anything Steve may or may not have dabbled in in the past had been careful, and experimental. Rumlow dragged him headlong into something, darker, more intense, and _filthier_ than Steve could have imagine. Rumlow wanted to debauch Steve so thoroughly that no one would _ever_ want to touch him again. He wanted Steve to be completely _his_ , until Steve could never imagine being satisfied by anyone else ever again. And then he'd drop him, and watch the kid's world crumble. 

Rumlow fucked his hand over Steve's cock, pumping the man's erection until he could feel his body tightening. Shudder's took his muscular frame, and Steve gave a high whine, his fingers gripping bruises into his leg as his dripping precome slicked Rumlow's hand. He was close, trembling, a low whimper catching his his throat and-

Rumlow abruptly released Steve's cock.

While the younger man's head was still spinning, clouded with aborted pleasure, Brock pressed a mocking kiss to his crimson cheek. His stubble scraped roughly over Steve's sensitive skin and he cracked a nasty smirk. "Not tonight, Sweetheart." He purred, the affectionate nickname stinging like salt in an open wound as he abruptly strode to the door, threw it wide, and disappeared into the night.

Steve caught his breath in a gasp, reeling from the abrupt cut of contact, his body throbbing from the unreleased pleasure that was now bordering uncomfortably on pain. His body was suddenly aching, cold without Rumlow, hot, and muscular, to his back. For a moment, he didn't register that Brock was really _gone_ , and then the cold night air blew in through the still open door, and Steve felt the loss crush down on him like a bucket of lead.

Everything about Rumlow stung in its own way, but his presence dulled the gnawing ache of loneliness that that followed him ceaselessly. Steve lived in a thin cloud of gray, surrounded, thinly separated from the new world around him by the unshakable death shroud of the life he had used to live. His life was gone. His friends. His comrades. Everything familiar... _Bucky_... The bitter loneliness ate him alive, inside and out. It was killing him slowly and no one could see it. _How could no one see it?_

Rumlow saw it... _maybe_...if he did, he didn't try and offer a solution, and for that, Steve was grateful. There _was_ no solution. He could never go back to his life. He could never bring back from the dead the friends he loved. He could never buy back the years he should have spent with Peggy...or with Bucky...Rumlow knew this, and didn't insult Steve by trying to move him past a life lost. Brock offered something different instead. _A distraction_ , and Steve appreciated it for what it was...but sometimes he couldn't help but feel hurt... _used_...But it didn't matter, because if distractions were all they were to each other, Steve would take it over the solitude and aching loneliness that drained his will to live.

Stumbling on shaking legs, Steve dropped his weight against the counter with a gasp, his own hand curling around his aching member. He pumped his fist over his cock, but his own attempts to slake the unreleased pressure in his body only made the stabbing pang of loneliness that Rumlow left in his wake worse. After a few rough, dragging tugs against his sensitive skin, Steve gave up. He dropped his weight back against the counter with a low moan, his body on fire, stomach twisted into a hard knot. He needed a shower. A cold one.

-.-

Steve stood under the frigid water, until the building desperation in his body eased, and he could finally stand still without squirming; writhing to sooth the ache. Once the pain ebbed, Steve turned the water warm, and washed his body clean of sweat, and come.

He didn't bother to dress any more completely than to pull on a pair of boxer shorts. He would sleep soon anyways, so dressing fully was redundant. Steve stripped the sheets, soaked with sweat, and smeared with his and Rumlow's combined release, and tossed them in the hamper, resolving to deal with it tomorrow. He collected the two cigarette butts from the carpet, vacuuming up the ash and throwing wide his windows to air out the lingering smell of smoke.

Only once the house was in order, and there were clean sheets on the bed, did Steve fall back on his mattress. He was exhausted, and sore, and the ache in his gut had morphed into a searing, white hot pain. Rumlow mocked him if he cried when he was too rough; slamming into him with backbreaking force, with very little lube and even less preparation, but that didn't stop the burning in his eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. He tried to comfort himself that life wasn't so bad here. He had a purpose... _sort_ _of_...S.H.I.E.L.D. was a good cause...he should be happy that he was doing something to better people's lives. He had a home... _if_ a home was nothing more than four walls...he had...he had _Rumlow_...that had to count for _something_...

But through all of that, Steve couldn't help but wonder why was it necessary that he had to live, even when everything he loved was dead. 


	2. Smithsonian Institute 1400 Hours

_Steve froze, hearing the gun click, so close he could smell the metallic heat coming off the firearm, and knew that dodging wouldn't take him out of the way quickly enough. Not at this close range. His mind was spinning the tactical possibilities when the rippling snap of a parachute through the air met his ears, and Steve dropped. A second later, a silenced bullet cracked the pirate's skull._

_Steve straightened, the water rolling the deck of the Lemurian Star beneath his feet, and he turned just as Rumlow's feet hit the deck with a muted thump. A rugged, wolfish grin played on his features, and Steve returned the smile with a short nod. "Thanks," He breathed, only a little winded from taking out the ten or more pirates before the gunman had caught him by surprise._

_“Yeah, you seemed pretty helpless without me.” Rumlow jabbed, but his tone was free of malice. Just good old fashioned banter. After all, Cap had to think he was on his side..._

-.-

Rumlow counted the Lemurian Star incident as a success. Sitwell had been exactly where he'd needed to be. HYDRA had full control of the situation, and S.H.I.E.L.D. was clueless. The men they had lost to Cap and the team had been expendable, and over all Rumlow felt as though the entire operation had gone off without a hitch.

Steve, not so much.

He'd returned from the mission _livid_. Trust was apparently something Rogers valued highly, and having other agents sneaking around with hidden agendas chaffed him. He'd gone directly to Fury, not to be dissuaded from his goal even by Rumlow gripping his arm, and tugging him around a quiet corner. Even with a hot mouth against his throat, and scarred, calloused hands already working into the front of his stealth suit, Steve had merely tugged free, muttering an absent, _'not now,'_ before throwing open the doors and stalking into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s head quarters.

Rumlow couldn't pretend that he wasn't at least a _little_  irked. Hot, sweaty, filthy sex after missions had become the norm, and he had been looking forward to fucking Steve raw to burn off the excess adrenaline. Now, he'd have to wait for _god knows_ how long, and Rumlow was not a patient man. Still, he settled in to wait. Call it a bad habit, but Rumlow had taken to shadowing Steve when he left S.H.I.E.L.D. He _was_ supposed to keep an eye on him after all. Rumlow had orders from the very top to keep Rogers close. Pierce wasn't overly worried about him, but he would have been a fool to overlook the Captain as a threat entirely, so Rumlow had been put on his detail. He'd never been given instructions as to _how_ close he needed to stay, so he'd taken a few personal liberties. Up Rogers ass definitely qualified as _close enough_ , and it had the added benefit of giving Brock something to toy with. Steve was desperately lonely, and Rumlow had no qualms over mixing business with pleasure. If he could get a few good fucks out of Steve before he had to put him down, it was all the better for him.

Forty minutes later, the Captain emerged from the building, looking drawn, and distant, his young face aged beyond his twenty seven years. He looked tired, and heartsick, and Rumlow couldn't help but smirk to imagine the kind of anti-idealist dose of reality he'd just been hit with. Project insight maybe? Was the thought of millions of lives only a moment away from execution at any time more than his heart could handle?

Smirking, Rumlow drew away from the wall, and tailed Steve away from the Triskellion.

-.-

Steve felt his chest constrict with pain, throat tight, his gaze rooted up at the image lazered into the glass display... _Bucky_...seeing him never stopped hurting. The image chosen for the memorial didn't do him justice. He looked stoic, and dead-eyed, his mouth set into a stiff line. Like a soldier. Steve had spent _hours_ of his life sketching Bucky. He had books full of charcoal drawings; his best friend -the man he loved- slipping on to almost every page. In the smudged charcoal on yellowed paper, Bucky laughed; his eyes gleamed with vitality, and life, his boyish grin spreading wide. He had sketches of Bucky sleeping like an angel with his dark chestnut hair tousled over his forehead, Bucky dancing with a faceless girl in a pretty dress, even posing for him with that cheeky grin... That stupid...fucking _gorgeous_ grin...That _'I look good, don't I, Stevie?'_ grin, that grin that would widen, dimpling his cheeks when Steve retorted a _'Shut that hole in yer ugly mug Buck, I'm draw'n here.'_ And of course Bucky would know he didn't mean a _word_ of it because Bucky was the most beautiful person Steve had ever laid eyes on...and Steve loved him... _he loved him._.. _That_ was the Bucky he wanted to remember...not the image in front of him...Not the hollow, dead eyed soldier that wore his lover's face.

Steve's eyes abruptly snapped shut, the color draining from his cheeks as his mind replayed the moment that haunted his nightmares in vicious clarity. He could _feel_ the freezing wind tearing at his hair and clothing as he clutched the side of the train, terror coursing through his body. But not from being thousands of feet in the air; not from clinging to a single, thin rail above a frozen abyss, but for seeing the man he loved reaching for him, and knowing in his heart that he couldn't catch him. The rail broke, and Steve felt a cry striping his throat raw as his hand missed Bucky's by centimeters, and he fell; _screaming_. 

_Had it hurt?_

Steve felt his stomach twist with nausea, and he found himself suddenly needing the brace his weight on the large, heavy plaque below Buck's engraved image, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to quiet the ghosts of his past. Steve had been raised by his Christian mother, but after loosing Bucky, he prayed very little..Now, whenever he did, however infrequent, he prayed only one thing.. _.that it hadn't hurt_...He prayed to God, for as long as he had the strength to believed, that if Bucky couldn't be spared that at least he could have died without pain. He _prayed_ that his best friend had struck the ravine floor was such force that he'd died instantly, broken on the rocks. It was the best he could hoped for him, because the alternative was more that Steve could stand to imagine. Bucky, laying on the rocks and hard-packed snow, his body broken, bleeding out but still alert. He would have stared up at the gray sky as the snow feathered his cheeks, light, and innocent as his blood pooled around him. His split lips would have parted, his bleeding mouth forming a feeble cry for help. He was terrified, dying in agony...utterly alone. _Abandoned_. And yet he would have laid there, _almost_ smiling, because of course, Steve was gonna come back for him...He was gonna come back...he was gonna find him and take him home...just like before. _..Steve was gonna come back for him..._

_He should have looked for him._

Guilt crashed over him in a sickening wave, his fingers tightening on the display.  _He felt sick._ He should have jumped from the train himself. Steve told himself that he would have healed... _probably_...He should have gone after him, _saved him_. And even if God was merciful enough to have let Bucky died without pain, he should have gone anyways; if for no other reason than to recover the body, give his best friend the dignity of a proper funeral...a headstone...an engraving... _something_...Bucky deserved that...he deserved so much better than this...he deserved to have lived a long happy life with Steve, or someone who made him just as happy. He should have come home from the military, and settled down with a nice place, and a spouse (Steve had never _dared_ to hope that it could have been _him_.) Bucky should have had the chance to be a dad; to hold his tiny, newborn child in his arms and laugh because he was a _daddy_. He should have had grandchildren who would have told his story all the way into the century Steve was trapped in now. But now, because of _him_ , Bucky didn't get any of that. Now, he was a mere _footnote_ in a legacy Steve hadn't asked for.

_It wasn't fair._

Rumlow watched from a ways back, his muscular arms folded across his chest, eyes dark, and observant. He watched the nuances of Rogers' behavior, the way his throat tightened, and his hands trembled just slightly as he gripped the plaque for support; the way the blood drained from his cheeks after looking up at at Barnes' memorial. He watched the way his lips slightly parted, his expression rent with pain, and suddenly, a heavy realization settled in Brock's gut. He mourned Barnes the way he would mourn a _lover_. Not with stoic respect, but with deep, shuddering sighs that hinted at the agonizing sobs building in his chest; with wet eyes, and soft, tender brushes with trembling fingers along the memorial. Rumlow had always been a skeptic about the rumors surrounding Captain America's past lovers. Half of the nation insisted that Steve Rogers was conservative, pure and virginal, and _aggressively_ heterosexual. Rumlow already knew _that_ picture was flawed. Rogers was a fucking _cockslut_ , and there was nothing pure, virginal, _or_ heterosexual about him. But until now he'd put little stock into the opposing side of the issue: that even in the forties, Steve Rogers had had male lovers, most notably, his best friend, Bucky Barnes.

It always seemed a little too quaint for Rumlow to accept. Captain America fucking like a rabbit with his _best buddy_ from when they were kids? He doubted it. Brock had always assumed that Steve had seen little action before being deep frozen for seventy years. _Maybe_ he'd given a few messy blowjobs, or helped a fella get off with his hands -cause _hey_ , it war, there aren't a lot of gals to be had- but he doubted he'd done much more. It made more sense that, seeing the wider acceptance of diverse sexualities in the twenty-first century, Rogers had warmed up to accepting a part of himself that had been taboo in the forties. Though they'd never discussed it _directly_ , Rumlow like to fancy that _he'd_ been the one to pop Captain America's cherry. But now, he wasn't so sure.

Rogers was a mess. He looked sick, like the grief, and guilt, and heart wrenching loneliness was eating him alive. The grief that bled from every pore in Steve's body was deeper than the loss of a comrade, that was all too plain. _He had been in love with him,_ totally, completely, and irreversibly in love with him. Steve Rogers had loved Bucky Barnes with every fiber in his being, and now that he was gone, Steve was a shell; broken, and gutted. The person he loved most had been torn out of his life, leaving a gaping wound in his heart that never healed. It just _bled_ , and _bled_ , throbbing, and aching, sometimes scabbing over, before Steve would rake it open again because the pain helped him remember. He didn't _want_ to heal, because he didn't want to _forget_. _So he let himself bleed._

And all of the sudden, a strategy so malicious it made his skin prickle began to churn in the back of Rumlow's mind.

Steve craved intimacy, but not from just _anyone._  He wanted  _Bucky_  and no one else was enough. He _ached_ for the man he loved, the man thought long dead. He _craved_ his affection; his touch, the sound of his voice...But he could never have Bucky back...that had been ripped away from him forever. But what if there were someone who acted like Bucky? Spoke like him, someone who always had Steve's back, and teased him about being a scrappy little punk? What if there were someone so much like Bucky it was too agonizing to walk away from. It would hurt like fuck, but someone like _that_ , Steve wouldn't be eager to leave.

Slowly, Rumlow felt a smirk curl at the corners of his lips as he imagined tormenting Steve with a shadow of what he _really_ wanted, as he imagined trying on Bucky Barnes like a second skin. Tweaking his accent to mirror the casual Brooklyn drawl would be subtle, but painful. Working a few dated phrases from the forties into his vernacular would also be a simple change, and Rumlow found himself drinking in the sight of the man in the memorial, putting himself in his shoes. How would he walk? How would drawl out his words? How would Bucky Barnes kiss, or fuck? 

His mind flashed to the man, the _tool,_ that lurked in the prison of HYDRA's facility. In theory, HYDRA's Asset, and Barnes where the same, but the Asset was no more Bucky Barnes than _Rumlow_ was. Who he had been in the past had been scoured from his mind. He was a weapon, not a person, and Rumlow would learn more about how to mirror the man the Captain loved from old war films and comic books, then from Barnes himself...or.. _.what was left of him._ No. The Asset wouldn't be a help, but Rumlow could get along just fine without him. Becoming as much like Barnes as humanly possible was going to be the cruelest thing he'd ever done to Steve, and the thought made his skin prickle with delight. It would be thrilling to watch Steve hurt; watch him grow more and more attached, unable to even _consider_ leaving the man who hurt him so much, because he so resembled the man he loved. Steve would be his, and Rumlow could do with him _whatever_ he like. But Rumlow liked to play with his toys before he broke them.

After a long time, Steve slowly straightened, his face ashen as he turned reluctantly from the memorial. His head was lowered, blind, and deaf to the world around him as he drifted away in a haze of pain, Rumlow melting into the crowd and shadowing Steve like a malicious ghost.

-.-

Location was key. Steve had been in the Smithsonian for several hours, and when he finally emerged, Rumlow wanted to be close enough to engage him, but not so close as to be suspicious. Steve didn't need to know he'd been followed, although Rumlow highly doubted that he'd be in any mind frame to consider it after spending the afternoon in a place like _that_. He positioned himself about a block away from the Smithsonian entrance, and settled his weight comfortably against the side of a building, waiting for Steve to finish reminiscing.

When he finally emerged, his head was bowed, shoulder rolled forward as he walked blindly. He looked isolated, and closed, his posture subtly discouraging any contact. It was obvious he didn't want anyone to notice, or speak to him. He was hurting too badly to cover his grief with a smile today. Watching cautiously, Rumlow pulled away from the building, his gaze dropping as he casually lifted his phone to his ear, punching in his own number before beginning to leave a voice mail on the machine. He wanted to seem engaged when Steve passed him, but he knew the sound of his voice would draw Steve's attention like a magnet, eliminating the need for him to obviously initiate the contact.

Steve approached him in a fog, the sidewalk blurring under his unseeing gaze, his feet carrying him without instruction. He was directionless, his body knowing nothing but that it had to take him away from the painful memories trapped in the Smithsonian. To every other living soul, the display was a celebration. To Steve it was a graveyard. The toe of his right shoe skidded over a stone, his body jolting just enough to shake his clouded mind; enough for a familiar sound to break through the haze of grief.

_Brock_

Instinctively, Steve lifted his head, his gaze catching on Rumlow a short ways ahead, one hand in his pocket, talking into his phone. A moment later, the phone clicked closed, and Rumlow, feeling his stare on the back of his head, turned to meet his gaze. Steve's stomach dropped with disappointment. He was hardly in the mood to talk, but Rumlow had seen him now.

"Hey Cap," Rumlow greeted predictably, flashing his teeth in a rugged grin and Steve abruptly dropped his head, the backs of his knuckles brushing under his nose, blinking to clear his vision.

_Fuck, the man was a walking wound._

"Brock." He murmured in a low greeting, keeping his voice even, and his feet moving. But Rumlow _hated_ to be brushed off. The moment it became obvious that Steve was continuing past him, he was roughly jostled as Rumlow's forearm thumped across his impossibly broad chest, stopping him dead. Steve's eyes dropped closed, his stomach twisting as he tried to scrape together the tattered shreds of his emotions before the inevitable sharp words would snap into him. _'Hey- don't you walk away from me. Look at me when I'm talkin' to you, huh, Rogers?'_

But when Rumlow spoke, he didn't bite out the words. His tone was low, and uncharacteristically concerned.

"Y'look a little rough around there edges there Rogers...You alright?" Rumlow stared up at Steve's drawn expression. He looked haggard and exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red, although his cheeks were bone dry. Steve startled, jerking in surprise as though he hadn't anticipated any warmth, or concern. But if he was going to toy with Steve the way he wanted to, Steve had to beliefve that Rumlow was beginning to soften, if only for _him_. Besides, Rumlow had to imagine how Barnes would have reacted to a situation like this, and a little gentle concern was the obvious answer.

Steve lifted his chin, his expression flickering with confusion before settling into a mask of neutrality. "I'm...fine. _Thank you."_ He responded, with as much honest gratefulness as he could manage. Rumlow almost never checked in on him without some kind of barbed comment attached, and most days, he could have handled it. But not today. Today, on of Rumlow's cruel, biting jabs would have been more than Steve was capable of dealing with, but his words actually seemed... _genuine_...and Steve appreciated it more than he had the emotional strength to express.

Easing a step closer, Rumlow tipped his chin in direction of the banner outside of Smithsonian, his brow drawing in a slight frown. "Can't imagine spending time in a place like that's really easy on you..." He murmured under his breath, a rueful smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. "If I were in your shoes I'd wanna burn the place to the fucking ground."

Still cautiously surprised, Steve managed a tight, painful smile, his gaze dropping back to the museum. He was silent for a long moment, weighting his words before speaking. "It's not..." He started hesitantly, allowing Rumlow to move into his space, standing close enough to feel the breath on his face, but it offered a strange form of comfort. The physical intimacy was something Steve ached for. "But sometimes it's good...y'know?" He continued, again, trying a little smile that didn't make it to his tortured blue eyes.

Brock shook his head, mouth tightening into a thin line that brought out the white of a thin scar through his upper lip. "Sorry- I'm not picturing it. I can't imagine that being in there does anything more then fucking _suck_. Then again-" he added, cracking his usual asshole grin. "I wouldn't. I'm not the bleeding heart type."

Steve surprised himself with a faint snort, a tired smile trying to lift at the corners of his mouth. "No-" he snorted. "I guess not..." Steve paused a moment longer, still adjusting to Rumlow's unusual sincerity. He tried to never let himself hope that they could be anything more than distractions, even _friends_ was too much to hope for, but Steve couldn't quite help the little tug of warmth in the pit of his stomach. Glancing up, Steve offered Rumlow the best smile he could manage. His heart still ached, and he felt like someone had shoved a rusty shiv through his gut, but Rumlow's offhanded comfort had soothed a little of the sting.

"Thanks...again, I guess." He said uncertainly, his hands slipping into the pockets of his dark blue jacket, but Rumlow cut him off before he could continue.

"Ah what are you talkin' about?" Rumlow grinned, and Steve unintentionally startled, feeling a sudden lance of pain though his chest. _Had Rumlow's accented always been that thick?_ The smooth, Brooklyn drawl was unmistakable. He could be hearing things...Rumlow _did_ have an accent but it had always seemed more...Long Island...but now Steve could hear the busy streets of Brooklyn in every syllable. Rumlow, apparently unaware of Steve's sudden shock and discomfort pressed on, his mouth twisting into a crooked grin. "C'mon, _someone's_ gotta keep an eye on a scrappy brat like you."

Steve wondered if the time in the museum had distorted his perception of reality. If it had, it was a cruel joke, because how many times had Bucky said the same kind of thing to him? _'Come on Punk, somebody's gotta pull yer ass outta the dumpster,' 'What the fuck Steve, do you go looking for trouble when I'm not around?' 'Somebody's gotta keep an eye on a pain in the ass like you, and it might as well be me.'_ Steve swallowed hard, his head spinning, lips trying to form a clever response but it wouldn't come. He was too tired, his head was throbbing, and Rumlow's accent made him want to break down and cry. But instead, Steve merely dropped his head, unable to face the little smirk that had reminded him of Bucky from the very beginning. "Yeah." He murmured, low and exhausted, and wondered if Rumlow meant what he said; that he was looking out for him.

A firm hand curled over the top of his shoulder, rough, firm, and familiar. _Dominating_. "I'll swing by your apartment later... _check in._ " The last two words were spoken, low, and suggestive in his ear, and Steve breathed huff of relief as Rumlow slipped back to predictably _Rumlow_ behavior. The Brooklyn drawl sounded like music, but burnt like a hot coal. 

"Maybe...not tonight..." Steve said tentatively, not sure how Rumlow would react. He didn't like being denied what he wanted, but Steve didn't think he would be quite up for Rumlow's ' _checking in._ ' Rumlow never liked slow, and Steve didn't think he was capable of gentle. He didn't think he could take four hours of bed-breaking sex, so Steve continued before the other man could reply. "I- I'm gonna go visit an old friend." He pressed, the image of Peggy haunting his mind. "So...I think...maybe another time."

An ugly flare of anger twisted in Rumlow's gut but he abruptly choked it out. He wanted Steve to believe he was softening; he wanted Steve to wonder if _maybe_ he was falling in love with Rumlow. _He wanted Steve to believe that Rumlow loved him back_. So Instead of grabbing Steve's neck like a badly behaved dog and dragging him to his car to fuck in the back seat like a common street whore, Rumlow just smirked.

"Gonna leave me hanging, huh Pal?" He drawled, and watched with satisfaction as Steve's gaze flickered with poorly concealed pain.

Steve buried the expression of agony that Rumlow's drawl wrenched from him. _God_ \- he sounded just like any fella he would have passed on the streets of Brooklyn 75 years ago. He sounded like _Bucky_ , and it fucking _hurt_.

But it wasn't Rumlow's fault. He didn't know. Or if he did, he may have assumed that the sound would be familiar, and comforting. He couldn't know how much it hurt to hear. He couldn't imagine the images it kicked up in Steve's mind of late nights smoking on the fire escape above a sleeping city, and early mornings waking up wrapped in Bucky's sturdy, muscular arms; kissing him, morning breath and all.

So instead of grimacing, Steve forced a tight smile, the pain still burning behind his soft blue eyes. "For now," he agreed, relieved beyond words that Rumlow hadn't pushed the issue. He thought that may be a first. "But, maybe tomorrow..."

Rumlow fixed Steve with a wolfish grin, and curled his hand into the front of his jacket, pulling him in for a rough, barely reciprocated kiss. " _If_ I still want you tomorrow." He couldn't resisted jabbing, before clapping Steve's shoulder and stalking off. He was sore that Steve had turned him down, not once, but _twice_ already today. He was sore that he wasn't going to get to fuck that tight hole of his, but he also had other things to occupy his time; like figuring out how to be as painfully reminiscent of Captain America's late lover as possible. It wasn't relevant to his mission, and it wasn't necessary to his monitor on Rogers, but it was fucking _fun_ , and Rumlow _loved_ watching Steve squirm.

The museum was the first stop, but after that, Rumlow decided that he just might sneak a look at the genuine article.

-.-

He timed his visit with seasoned precision. Rumlow knew HYDRA's schedule like clockwork, and he chose the exact right moment to slip into the Asset's holding cell. The Asset had returned from a kill less than an hour ago. The technicians had monitored his vitals, and other levels and repaired any damage to that _grotesque_ metal arm of his. In fifteen minutes, he'd be wiped, and reduced once more to a completely blanks slate.

This was a constant necessity because, over the years, the Asset had proved to be obnoxiously stubborn. For the first two day after a wipe, he was the perfect tool; merciless, and efficient, never questioning orders. By the third day he started to speak on his own, for more than to confirm a kill. By the fourth and fifth day after a wipe he actually asked _question_ , his brain scrambling to make associations between the shards of memory that jarred around in his mind; disconnected, and robbed of meaning, but not erased. Once this happened, he need to be wiped as quickly as possible.

As it was Rumlow had come at the perfect time. Now, he could taunt the soldier, say anything he wanted, trigger any raw memories he cared to, and in fifteen minutes, none of it would matter. He could torment the Asset's tortured mind however he like, without endangering future missions. Even if they had to strap him down, frantic, and screaming for long dead friends and comrades it wouldn't matter. He would be wiped, and reprogrammed, used, and then stored like a tool; _like he was meant to be_. All that, and Rumlow was _still_ allowed his fun.

Waving off a guard hovering by the door, Rumlow strode into the Asset's holding cell, swinging the door closed behind him with a heavy clang. He sat in the heavy, mechanized chair, unrestrained, but with his wrists already resting in the open cuff; waiting, _obedient_. The Asset's body was rigid, his face flecked with a fine spray of blood, and despite his raw power and capability, he looked like a _child_. His eyes were wide open, lost, and confused. His slightly parted lips twitched, as though repeating words to himself in his head, trying to make connections, trying to decipher some meaning out of the deafening cacophony in his head. It wasn't empty in there, not by a long stretch. The Asset's mind was a loud, cluttered place, reverberating with broken, disjointed memories that he could no longer find meaning to; his mind must be a hellhole. Really, the wipe was a blessing.

Rumlow strolled into the room, relaxed, and casual, his mouth turned up in an ugly smirk. "Hey big guy," He growled, stalking close, but the Asset didn't so much as twitch. His gaze remained unfocused, and haunted, seeming to not even register that Rumlow was in the room. But Rumlow knew better. The Asset was too good to let himself be snuck up on, he was _keenly_ aware of his presence; but he was simply choosing to ignore him.

Rumlow felt a twinge of irritation. Only Pierce could control the Soldier, but he _deserved_ his respect. The Asset was nothing. A tool. A weapon. He should be on the floor, licking his boots, not consciously _ignoring_ him. But for the time being, Rumlow restrained his anger. He wanted to taunt the thing for a while first. Bending to the seated man's level, Rumlow eased into his personal space, that ugly smirk still crookedly twisting his mouth, his teeth subtly bared. "I ran into your _boyfriend_ today." He taunted, wondering how much he had to say before he got a reaction. Again, he was met with a non-response. The Asset looked straight through him. "You know-" Brock pressed, stuffing the desire to slap to Asset to get him to fucking _look_ _at him._ "Blond hair? Tight ass? You can't tell me you don't remember your _Steve_." At the name, the Asset jerked like he'd been shocked, his eyes flashing with something deep, aching, and unrecognizable, and for the first time, his gaze snapped to Rumlow.

And then the reaction was gone.

The burning expression of sudden recognition collapsed on itself, leaving a black hole of confusion and disjointed pain. His gaze grew suddenly unfocused, eyes dropping away. The Asset's fingers twitched on the arms of the chair from within the open cuffs. Long strands of unwashed, dark hair hung in front of the man's haunted eyes, his lips parting, forming the name silently, before letting it slip from his lips.

" _Steve?"_

Rumlow often forget how soft the Asset's voice was. It was low, and quiet, still almost _boyish_ ; but it rang with pain. "Sure, _don't you remember?_ " He taunted smirking cruelly. "You died for him, and he _let_ you."

It didn't stir the kind of reaction Rumlow had been hopping for. The Asset just stared straight through, his brow twitching as he tried to connect the dots, but nothing more. His patience abruptly snapped, and Rumlow suddenly dragged the man's face back around, his teeth bared in a vicious display of dominance. _"Look at me soldier."_ He snarled, and the Asset's eyes snapped up, meeting his gaze as instructed. He was the world's most deadly toy, and all Rumlow had to do was order him, and he would obey. He had to. He had considered exploiting this in the past. There were plenty of times when he was alone with the Asset; guarding him, rendezvousing with him at check points, and any number of other situations. He could have order him to do the most filthy, degrading thing, and he would have no choice but to comply. But as of now, Rumlow hadn't had the time, even though it would have been absolutely delicious for Steve to find out that he had not only used _him_ , but his precious _Bucky_ too.

Rumlow filed the idea away. Maybe another time. For now, he had ever more sadistic things in mind. The ugly snarl that twisted Rumlow's expression suddenly relaxed into a pandering smirk, and he gently jostled the Soldier's jaw, his rough fingers still digging into his skin. "Don't worry..." Rumlow purred, low, and vicious. "He's doing just _fine_...In fact, he's moved past _you_. I'm taking good care of him now..."

At Rumlow's words, realization dawned in the Asset's eyes, his expression twisted with conflicted anguish, because _god_ \- something inside him _knew_ who he was talking about. He didn't have a face, or a single memory to put to the name but it resounded in him so deeply in made his chest ache. It made his mind burn, and his body long for something softer than he'd ever experienced in his limited memory. It made him ache for gentle touch...for being spoken to as something other than a tool... _something he could never be_... The name stirred something deep and achingly painful inside him, and knowing that name was carried in his handler's mouth made his stomach turn with undirected violence.

The Asset was teetering on the edge, his body coiled with tension, but he still wasn't reacting the way Rumlow wanted. Rumlow wanted _agony_ , and _rage_. He wanted to Asset to break through the memory barrier, if only long enough to realize that Rumlow had taken the thing most important to him, and he was helpless to do anything about it. Rumlow released his chin, his hand blindly finding a switch on the panel beside the chair, and the cuff snapped closed. " _And you know what else?"_ He whispered, suddenly so close that his mouth grazed the Asset's ear, his breath hot on his blood-flecked skin. _"I've been fucking your Stevie in the ass..."_ Rumlow breathed in a menacing tone, grinning as the man coiled tighter, his skin pressing into the iron cuffs now restraining him in the chair. He shifted, his forehead touching the Asset's, locking his gaze with his, seeing the confusion, and rage churning inside him. "And you should hear the way he _moans_ for me..." He hissed, " _Low_ , and _wet_ , and _filthy_...You should _feel_ the way he shivers, and squirms under my hands when I fuck his pretty little ass so hard he _bleeds_ all over the sheets, crying like a fucking _bitch_ -"

The Asset jerked back his head, and _cracked_ into Rumlow's skull, splitting the skin, blood running down the bridge of the man's nose. Rumlow snarled with pain, reeling back with gritted teeth as thick, crimson blood trickled down his nose, and over his mouth and chin. His ears were ringing, head throbbing from the vicious blow, but his fury turned the rest of the world to white static. His eyes locked on the Asset. He sat, restrained in the chair, chest heaving, eyes wild, a smear of Rumlow's blood on his forehead. His body was trembling with an unplacable rage, his muscles tightening, flexing against the restraints as though to tear them free so he could pin Rumlow to the concrete floor and beat him; shatter the bones in his face until he was little more than a limp body on the floor, surrounded by a pool of thick, congealing blood, his skull crushed so far in it was barely recognizable. But the forethought of the restraints put Rumlow at the advantage, and he was too furious not to exploit it.

Rumlow flipped the electrified baton out of his belt, pressing the gear to ignite it, and _jabbing_ it into his gut.

The Asset strangled back a scream of pain, lurching against the restraints as electricity burned through his veins, easing for just a moment before the pronged ends jabbed back into him; this time against the side of his throat, just under his jaw. Pain turned his mind to a blank of white, the smell of burning flesh meeting his senses, and a scream stripped from his throat. He couldn't think. He lurched against the cuffs, bruising his wrists as he struggled, but Brock kept the baton pressed to his neck, grinning with sadistic rage as the skin blackened and burned. He writhed, his body jerking  until his screams abruptly choked off with a croak, his body dropping back; quivering, his eyes glassy. His gaze was fixed open, and unseeing, head dropped to the side, and for the first time, Rumlow's gut twisted into a knot of fear. But the fear wasn't for _Bucky._ It was for _him._  If he had broken Pierce's favorite toy...

Rumlow jerked the baton back, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck as his eye's raked over him. Dead, no. Rumlow could see his chest rising and falling in heavy, shuddering gasps. But the way his head hung and jerked spasmodically, the way his eyes stared out blindly like chipped glass marbles...Rumlow caught his breath in a gulp, _praying_ he hadn't fried the Asset's brain. He was no good to anyone with nerve damage. Once useless, the Asset would be put down like a dog, but not Rumlow...Rumlow would have something a lot worse coming for him than a single bullet in the back of his head.

Then the Asset spoke.

Rumlow jerked in horror. He shouldn't have been that cognitive. But it was electricity that scoured his mind, and maybe it was the electricity that had bridged some of the gaps in his memory. The Asset's glassy eyes rolled up to him, his chest heaving sickly as a vicious sneer curled his mouth. "I'll kill you if you hurt him..." He whispered, his vocal cords fried from disuse and screaming. His expression was twisted with an ugly, violent rage, and Rumlow was suddenly deeply unsettled to see so much of someone who wasn't supposed to even _exist_ anymore clawing back up from the depths. Bucky Barnes had been wiped, and scoured, and scraped out of the Asset's head so many times, over _so many_ decades that there should have been none of him left. Sure, a trace, here and there, but not _this_. The Asset was staring at him with such unbridled hatred and menace that it made Rumlow's skin crawl. He'd succeeded in gaining a reaction from the Asset, but it had gotten away from him. It had gone further than he had intended, and suddenly Rumlow was very, _very_ afraid. Because could the wipe reverse this? It was no longer a mindless weapon staring at him. It _was_ Bucky Barnes. But no- the wipe _had_ to work. It _always_ did. Rumlow was in no danger so long as the wipe worked properly.

Reestablishing his confidence, Rumlow stalked forward, blood still running from the throbbing split in the skin of his forehead, his eyes dark with malice. "I'll be impressed if you'll be able to even _remember_ that threat after five minutes." Rumow snarled, "And while they're wiping _every_ _last_ memory of your _precious_ Stevie out of your head, I'm going to go home, and fuck him until he _sobs_. And I'm gonna make sure he's screaming my name good and loud..."

The Asset lurched in the chair, and Rumlow instinctively jerked back, adrenaline dumping into his system. But the restraints held. Smirking cruelly, Rumlow sparked the baton inches from his face, and stalked out of the room, his expression settling into a sneer of disgust. He grabbed the first technician he passed, dragging him over and jerking a thumb towards the holding cell door.

"Wipe him. _Now_." He snarled, his hand curled into the front of the technician's shirt. "And make sure you don't cut any corners."


	3. Triskelion 1300 Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, please heed the warnings in the tags for this chapter.

Steve had never had morphine before, but he assumed Rumlow was close enough. He damaged his body and mind, yet he somehow canceled it out in a haze of soothing relief. Even the ugliest words, hissed, low, and hot in his ear while he slammed into his body sounded sweet in his smooth Brooklyn accent. His companionship dulled the burning ache of loneliness in Steve's gut, and after a while, the relief from the suffocating solitude made Steve forget about the pain almost entirely. And he kept coming back. Like a drug. Like morphine.

-.-

Steve jerked in surprise, feeling a wide, hardened hand slipping into the back pocket of his jeans, shamelessly groping his ass, and his heart suddenly lurched into his throat. He was about to whip around when he felt rough, even stubble scraping his neck, a familiar mouth grazing up over the shell of his ear. 

"Keep walkin' Dollface." Rumlow drawled Steve's skin prickling as the older man slid into step beside him. He could hear the smile in his words. Stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye, Steve caught sight of Rumlow. He was grinning roguishly, his bronzed skin sun-kissed, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. Steve quirked a nervous little smile, his heart rate escalating as Rumlow's fingers curled into him, past the soft flesh, kneading deep into the hardened muscle below.

" _Brock_ -" he breathed, his cheeks heating despite himself, his gaze snapping around. "C'mon, there are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents _everywhere_..." He pleaded, trying to ignore the inconvenient arousal that was beginning to stir in his gut, his cock twitching between his thighs. Steve may not be the hyper-conservative, innocent virgin type, but he was raised in a different time, and he wanted nothing to do with having his sex life on display for all of his co-workers to see.

On the other hand, that was _exactly_ what Brock wanted. He wanted everyone to see him with Steve. He wanted _everyone_ to know that Steve belonged to _him_ , and they weren't to do so much as speak to him outside of a professional environment. Right now, Rumlow was Steve's only real companion. He didn't trust Romanoff, and none of the other agents could see Steve Rogers underneath Captain America. And that's just how Rumlow wanted it to stay. The more isolated Steve was, the easier he would be to control.

Rumlow cracked a grin, neglecting to take his hand out of Steve's back pocket, instead, digging his fingers in so deep Steve's pace faltered, the younger man very nearly tripping over his own feet. "Relax," he purred in his ear, still grinning. "It's a different era, Cap, and people don't give a shit."

"Yeah- I get that, _thanks_ ," he quipped sarcastically. "But Rumlow, they're not _strangers_ , they're my _co-workers_. I see them every day, and I don't think its professional to-"

"Flaunt your sex life?"

"M-maybe- _yes_." He said more firmly. "It's indecorous for the situation. We should be maintaining a certain level of professional distance at work, just like everyone else does."

Brock wrinkled his nose, before baring his teeth and biting lightly on the flushed shell of Steve's ear. "What? You're _ashamed_ of me now?" He drawled, and Steve's heart faltered in his just, his blood turning cold with sudden, discomfort and fear. He _couldn't_ think that...Brock _couldn't_ think that Steve didn't want him... _He was the best thing Steve had..._

Suppressing a low moan, Steve managed to squirm free, turning so that Rumlow's hand slipped out of the back of his jeans. " _No_ ," he said earnestly, looking up at him, his expression pleading. He waited a moment, just long enough for Rumlow's hand to drop to his side before he eased forward, reaching out to brush his finger tips along his bare forearm in a gesture of tender reassurance. "It's not that and you _know_ it." He said softly, unable to wrap his head around how Rumlow could believe that he was _ashamed_ of him... "I just mean that we need be professional, and as nice as it feels, you probably shouldn't be groping me right in front of S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters..." He finished, offering him that shyly hopeful smile that crinkled the corners of his perfect blue eyes, and showed just the barest hint of the loneliness and depression that would consume him were he to loose the one person he believed to understand him.

Rumlow felt a thrill of satisfaction. The jab had been a test of sorts, to see if Steve would fight to keep his affection when Rumlow suggested otherwise. The test had been a complete success. Steve _wanted_ him. He wanted his companionship, and approval, -dare he hope- his _love_ , and he would fight to keep him in his life. _Good_.

Rumlow watched him for a long moment, not replying. He wanted Steve to doubt weather or not he believed him, so he waited just long enough to see Steve's gaze flicker with painful uncertainty before Rumlow let his expression relaxed into an easy smile. "What ever you say. You're the Captain." He smirked, and as the tension went out of Steve's body, Rumlow eased closer, pushing the professional boundary for a moment more as his hand curled into the front of Steve's belt. The other man's skin was hot under his touch, and Rumlow felt him tremble as he drew him close.  Turning his head, Brock tucked his wet mouth against Steve's ear, his lips grazing the warm skin. " _But_ -" he breathed, hot air prickling over Steve's skin. "If I can't touch you now, you'd _better_ be planning on a make up later."

Steve felt a shiver run up his spine, his accent simultaneously stirring, and soothing the ache deep in his bones. The loneliness and desire for affection was so raw that it _almost_ had Steve considering ditching their last few hours of work and letting Rumlow take him now. Maybe it wasn't love, but it was the closest he had in this fucked up, lonely world.

He nodded shakily, Rumlow's fingers raking through his public hair, fingertips tracing the base of his cock. "I- I'll put fresh sheets on the bed." He panted, trying for a trace of weak humor, but all he sounded was _desperate._ And suddenly, Rumlow released his hold on Steve's waist band. He drew back, the comforting heat against his body pulling away, and Steve felt the loneliness settle back into his bones.

Rumlow hummed, low, and cruel, before shaking his head almost disapprovingly. "No," he said shortly, a little wrinkle creasing his brow as he turned away, for a moment, playing as though he didn't want Steve. He could feel his energy change even without looking at him, because Steve was suddenly burning with uncertainty. _A fear of abandonment._ A smirk curled at Rumlow's lips as he sensed his desperation and raw _need_ , before he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Once he'd decided he'd indulged in Steve's painful doubt for as long as he could, his disapproving demeanor cracked, and a crooked smirk lifted one corner of his mouth.  "Not your place. _Mine_. Come over at eight."

Steve stopped cold, as the fear that the one person in his life who seemed to care didn't want him anymore, suddenly morphed into confusion. Rumlow had never wanted him to come to his home before...they had always met at Steve's house. Steve had once suggested it early in their...well...their _relationship_ , he supposed, but Rumlow had written off the idea with an ugly scoff. _Y'think I wanna spend my time scrubbing your come out of my sheets?_ The words had stung, like Steve wasn't worth the time it took to change the bedding, but it had had the desired effect. He hadn't asked again. Now, Steve was wondering if he was hearing things. It wouldn't be the first time his perception of reality had cheated him recently...

"Sorry?" Steve called, Rumlow already stalking away with his powerful, rolling gait.

Rumlow tossed a glance over his shoulder, catching Steve's gaze with a flash of a grin. "C'mon, _focus_ Cap! My place. Eight. Not a minute later, y'got it?" Steve blinked, stunned, but jerked a short nod, even though Rumlow was already strolling back through the huge glass doors of the Triskellion.

"Eight o'clock. _You're place_..." He repeated, almost to himself, his head lowering as he tried to get a grip on the surprisingly pleasant change in Rumlow's personality. If he wasn't careful, he was going to get attached, and if Rumlow didn't return his feelings, it would bring more pain then he though he could survive. 

-.-

It wasn't as though they hadn't done this a million times before...it wasn't as though anything was really all that different, but Steve found himself suddenly flustered, and nervous at the thought of going into Rumlow's home. He stood on the doorstep, feeling naked despite the outfit he'd picked out with meticulous care. _Something_ was changing between himself and Rumlow and Steve couldn't put his finger on it; all he knew was that he wanted his approval, he wanted him to...to _want_ him...he wanted to prove to Rumlow that he was worth his time.

_He was in too deep to realize just how toxic that was._

Finally swallowing back his nerves, Steve reached out, his knuckles resting momentarily against the wood. Exhaling low, and soft, he steeled his resolve, rapping softly on the door to Rumlow's apartment. It was 8 o'clock sharp.

Almost the moment Steve drew away, the door swung open, and Steve was met by warmth, a rugged grin, and the sharp scent of Rumlow's cologne. "Well, no one can say anything against your punctuality." Rumlow smirked, resting his weight against the door frame as he took him in. His gaze raked over Steve's body appreciatively, drinking in the fit of his t-shirt across his pecs, and the way his dark-wash jeans hugged his ass and crotch. Steve felt like a piece of meat. But a moment later, the feeling vanished as Rumlow dropped his head with a smirk, glancing back up to him with something Steve could almost mistake for affection in his eyes. "Better get in here..." He said, the smirk widdening before he leaned in, his voice drooping off to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or else I might just consider fucking you on the porch for the entire neighborhood to see..."

Steve flushed absolutely scarlet at the suggestion and ducked his head, stepping quickly through the open doorway. Only once the door had closed behind him did Steve relax, satisfied hat Rumlow had dropped the idea. "I feel like I should have brought a housewarming gift..." Steve murmured as he glance around, the comment a subtle nod to the fact that he'd never seen Rumlow's home before. It was about what he would have expected of Rumlow. _Almost_ military neat, but with the edges fraying with carelessness; a half empty glass left on the table, a mismatches shoe abandoned by the side of the entrance. The air smelled of his favorite cigarettes. It didn't _quite_ look lived it. Less like a home, and more like a hotel that had been occupied for many weeks; everything settled, nothing permanent. Steve wondered what that said about Rumlow.

Rumlow scoffed off the comment, strolling confidently into the kitchen before throwing a glance over his shoulder. " _Cute, Rogers_ ," he smirked sarcastically, and abruptly snagged a second glass from the cupboard. "Now get yer ass in here and have a drink with me."

Steve froze as he felt everything he knew about the world suddenly unbalance. Because if there was _one_ consistent thing in his life, it was that Rumlow fucked first and talked later. And even then, he _seldom_ stayed around to chat. The fact that Steve wasn't naked with four fingers in his ass already was a bizarre miracle in itself, but Rumlow didn't seem to be in any kind of hurry to fuck him and throw him out. It was surreal, and for the first time, Steve truly felt that he was more than a quick fuck for Rumlow, and he felt his throat tighten before he swallowed the knot down, and eased into one of the kitchen chairs.

Steve watched in a bit of a daze as Rumlow poured him a drink, and he hardly cared what it was, his head was still spinning too much to ask. It wasn't like he had to worry about the alcohol content anyways. The older man's weight settled in across from him, and he'd been staring into space for a second too long before he realized that _Rumlow_ was staring at _him_.

Rumlow waited patiently as Steve snapped out of his fog, his distracted gaze snapping up to him, but he set him at ease with a casual smirk. Rumlow wet his lips, touching to rim of the glass to his mouth before taking a shallow swallow. " _So_ ," he started, his glass clinking to the table. "You keep busy today, or did you just hang around counting the seconds till you could show up on my doorstep?"

That managed to tug a snort from Steve's lips. On one hand, it was honest curiosity about something _other_ than sex, which was unusual, and confusing. But on the other, the teasingly self-centered quip was very classically _Rumlow,_ blurring the lines between the asshole Rumlow he'd grown accustomed to, and the new, _softer_ Rumlow who company was so painful and so addictivley soothing.

" _Actually_ , I have a life outside of you and work surprisingly enough." Steve sasses, one eyebrow quirking as he took a swallow of his drink, before his expression settled and he offered a real answer. "I uh, I actually visited a veteran's association today. A friend invited me a little while ago."

Rumlow felt his fingers tighten on his glass, a little prickle running up the back of his neck. He didn't like the way this was cooking up. A _support group?_ A _friend?_ They were dangerous elements to mix into a situation like this. He wanted Steve to himself. He wanted him isolated, helpless, unsupported. If Rumlow was the only key player in his life, he couldn't leave, but _this_...

Rumlow abruptly smoothed over his nerves, tucking away the reaction with ease as his gaze flickered back up from his drink. "Yeah? What friend?" He pried subtly, already trying to think of ways to sever any new found connections Steve had made.

"His name's Sam Wilson," Steve replied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small smile. "Met him jogging a few days back. Turnes out, he did two tours in the Air Force, and he invited me to stop by the vet association, said I should make him look good in front of the girl at the front desk. " He finished with a snicker, but Rumlow was already seizing the first opportunity he saw to blacken Steve's image of this guy _Wilson_.

"He sounds like a fame hound." He muttered darkly, taking another sip of his drink, and he watched as Steve's fond little smile faltered, and broke.

"Brock- _come on_ , he was joking." He protested, but Rumlow cut him off, with a quick shake of his head, waving off the protest dismissively.

"Look Cap, all I'm sayin' is that some fellas take a look at you, and _all_ they see is a chance to get a little attention by hanging around. _Fame by association_. That guy was just dumb enough to outright say it."

"He was _teasing_ -" Steve tried again his chest feeling tight with pain, but suddenly Rumlow's hand curled over the top of his shoulder, gripping deep into his muscle as he shifted to his feet, his demeanor assertive.

 _"Steve."_ He broke in, commanding his attention with the barked order, before his expression suddenly softened and his grip eased, his callused hand sliding up to cup the side of his neck. " _Look_...I _know_ you like to see the good in people, but y'can't just let them _use_ you either. I mean come on. You think he really sees _you?_ Or just Captain America?"

Steve faltered, his words drying up in his throat. Sam was _good._ He could see that in him. He was open, and kind, and he saw that the war and the loss was still effecting him even when no one else had. He'd offered him an opportunity to find support, and help; showed him he had a choice of what to do with his life beyond the hemet and shield...he believed that he was good...but Rumlow had a way of speaking, of looking at him that undermined his reasoning. He didn't _believe_ him. He didn't _believe_ that Sam was using him, but he couldn't bring himself to argue with Rumlow either.

At the expression of conflicted hurt on Steve's face, Rumlow huffed a low sigh, suddenly easing forward, his muscular thighs straddling Steve's lap. " _Okay_..." He murmured, drawing Steve's face close in his wide, scarred palms. "Okay...okay...forget about it...forget I said anything..." He breathed, rough hands drawing Steve into a _surprisingly_ gentle kiss. He _didn't_ want him to forget about it. He wanted the image he'd painted of Sam to creep into Steve's thoughts whenever they spoke, poisoning his view of him until being around Sam made his skin crawl. He wanted to drive him away from Sam as efficiently as possible, but he had to do it subtly, and all under the guise that he cared.

Steve shuddered under the gentle touch, his chest aching as his hands rested on Rumlow's hips, unconsciously tugging him closer. Brock was heavy over his lap, his weight pressing down on him; firm, grounding. Whether he believed him about Sam or not, his words still made him feel isolated, and alone, and the soft press of Rumlow's mouth to his own soothed the ache. If nothing else...he had _him_.

Rumlow's mouth tasted warm, and woody, like the scotch he'd been drinking, and his stubble scratched softly across Steve's fair skin. His hands slid from his neck to his jaw, Rumlow arching above Steve level until he was drawing his face upward, Steve's head dropped back as he kissed him; deep, and slow, and passionate. He'd never kissed Steve like this before, and he hoped the effect wasn't lost on him. It was all a means to an end; inviting Steve over, offering his support and comfort, kissing him like his desperation didn't make Rumlow gag...it was all to get Steve to fall in love with him. Cause wouldn't it be so much more fun if he could watch Steve's heart break before he put him down?

Steve broke the kiss with a low gasp, still pressed desperately close, drinking in his touch...his comfort. His hands moved softly over Rumlow's thighs, stroking him tenderly, his touch always so soft, so opposite of Rumlow's bruising, painful grip. He dragged in a steadying breath, still tasting Rumlow's drink on his lips. "Brock..." His whispered, soft, and helpless as the older man dominated the space over him.

"Ah c'mon Stevie..." Rumlow murmured, subtly dialing up the accent, knowing it made Steve hurt, knowing it drew him closer to him, made Steve _his_ a little bit more with every word. "Let's drop it and get to bed, huh?...I've missed gettin' my hands on yer peachy little ass..." he growled in his ear, smirking, shifting his hips to grind the bulge in his pants against Steve's crotch.

Steve's hips jerked at the friction and he nodded, breathless; obedient.

Rumlow smirked at Steve's needy little jerk, feeling the younger man's cock stiffen in the front of his jeans, feeling it pressing into the bottom of his thigh. Giving one last suggestive grind over his lap, Rumlow slid off, pulling Steve up by his jaw and dragging him once more into a dominating kiss. And Steve was back where he belonged; submissive to him, dominated by him.

Abruptly, he pulled Steve out of the kitchen, abandoning the half empty glasses on the table as he dragged him down a short hall to his bedroom. He could have taken Steve on the table, any of the counters or even the fucking _floor,_ but Steve was a classic, and the bedroom was going to be what he saw as the most romantic. Tugging him through the door, Rumlow went straight for the kill. He grabbed the front of Steve's shirt, yanking it off over his head as he slammed him back on the bed, the frame cracking sharply against the wall. Moving fast, and vicious, Rumlow straddled Steve's thighs, pinning him down and sinking his teeth into the side of his neck like Steve was his prey.

Steve lurched as Rumlow slammed him down onto the bed, all traces of gentleness gone, but Steve wasn't surprised. It wouldn't be Rumlow if he wasn't fucking hard. As the other man's canines sunk into his flesh, Steve felt his mind blank out with pleasure and pain. And this was why he liked the way Rumlow fucked. Because it _hurt_. Because it hurt, and the pain made him forget.

Rumlow bit into Steve until he tasted blood before drawing back, leaving behind a ring of bruised and broken skin. Swiftly, Rumlow stripped his own shirt off and set to work on Steve's belt, wrenching it open and yanking his pants and boxers off in one, quick motion. He had no time for ceremony or foreplay. The sooner the clothing was out of the way, the sooner he could get into Steve's tight hole.

Steve arched into the touch, finding himself suddenly naked, his skin prickling from the rough drag of fabric, his cock lifted against the core of his abs. Rumlow was crowding over him, pressing back into the side of his neck, kissing and sucking dark bruises into his throat. A low moan slipped from Steve's flushed lips, his trimmed nails dragging down Rumlow's bare back, curling into his pants, gripping desperately at his ass. His hands slid around down to the front of Brock's hips, and Steve yanked at his belt, making soft, needy sounds in the back of his throat.

Brock nipped his neck hard enough to make him yelp leaving a perfect little blossom of red on the thin flesh. "Quiet _bitch_." He growled, shoving his pants and boxers down around his thighs, shifting them until they coiled off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. He had been controlling his used of derogatory language towards Steve in conversation, but in the bedroom, he couldn't help himself. He liked the way it made Steve squirm.

Steve whined, Rumlow's biting words making him feel dirty, and degraded, and it was times like this that he liked it.

Rumlow pressed his whole powerful, naked body against Steve's, rolling his hips, the blood hot, iron length of his shaft rubbing against Steve's cock. He ground against him, deep, and filthy, grabbing the younger man's jaw and crushing their mouths together in a dirty kiss, his teeth catching at his lips and tongue. Steve quivered under his body, a constant stream of pathetic sounds slipping from his lips, swallowed into the rough kiss as Brock dominated the cavern of his mouth.

Cool air suddenly rushed into Steve's lungs as Rumlow broke the kiss sharply, straightening up, still dry humping him. Steve whimpering at the insufficient stimulation to his cock. Rumlow's length was hot and hard against his own, his balls smacking against his own at the drag of skin on skin, but the brushes and bumps weren't enough. He wanted Rumlow's rough hands around him, tugging and squeezing too hard, making him moan and cry out in painful pleasure. But Rumlow was a selfish partner, and he liked to see the way Steve squirmed when he hadn't been touched. When Steve went the entire time without Rumlow so much as brushing his fingertip along the underside of his shaft, Steve's cock would flush almost purple at the head; thick, and steadily dribbling precome across his stomach as he heaved and whimpered. He would _beg_ Rumlow, but wouldn't touch himself without his permission, and Rumlow _never_ gave his permission. He would touch Steve everywhere else, his fingers graze close enough to make him sob. He would call him his bitch, his slut, he would growl how much he loved the way Steve whimpered for him...so hard...his cock looked so pretty when it was so hard...just for him....

Steve jolted out of his haze of desperation as Rumlow's large, rough hands suddenly framed the entirety of Steve's pecs, his grip tightening, wrenching an unexpected moan from the blond's lips. "Y'like that?" Rumlow drawled, his voice lowered to almost a growl as he groped Steve's pecs, expertly pinching one nipple between the knuckles of his first and second fingers. "Hmmmm..." He hummed low in the back of his throat, watching with satisfaction as Steve blush all across his chest and up his neck and cheeks. He leaned down, spreading his grip out to the sides a little more before his lips brushed the skin, mouthing at his nipples. Steve's body reacted to the stimulation, his skin heating under Rumlow's lips as the little pink nub stiffened into a peak in his mouth. He growled against his skin, nipping at his chest. _"Fuck_ Stevie," Rumlow purred, applying his mouth back to his body, sucking on Steve's erect nipple, rubbing his tongue over it and pinching it between his teeth. "Y'got the goddamn prettiest tits I've ever seen on a fella..."

Steve felt his cheeks turning scarlet, his chest suddenly aching as memories flashed through his mind; Bucky kissing up his his skinny, birdbone chest, suckling gently on his nipples, whispering against his skin. ' _Fuck Stevie, yer the goddam prettiest thing I've ever see, look at these sweet little rosebuds- God what a doll!'_

Steve swallowed back a half choke, his mind suddenly wrenched back to reality as Rumlow caught his left nipple between his teeth, grinding on it viciously. Steve vision exploded in white, and he arched under him with a cry. With a jerk, Rumlow slammed Steve back down, pinning him flat as he pressed over him, still rutting against his hips as he groped Steve's pecs, biting on his soft, tender little nipples hard enough to make him gasp. He shifted to the neglected nipple, biting it once before sucking on it, wet, and sloppy, indulging in the way Steve writhed at the stimulation. _Such a sensitive bitch.._. He eased off, his hand slipping into the drawer of the nightstand, withdrawing the bottle of lube as he flicked his tongue over Steve's nipple. It glistened with his saliva, rosy, and erect. And while Steve was still stunned, his head spinning from pleasure, and stimulation, Rumlow slicked one hand, and slipped it down between the cheeks of Steve's perfectly round ass.

Steve blinked, hazy with pleasure, for a moment, not connecting the sensations. He didn't realize how quickly Rumlow was moving until he felt two slicked fingers suddenly forcing into body, and scissoring wide. Pain tore through him, and he cried out in alarm, tears beading at the corners of his eyes as his tight, unrelaxed entrance was suddenly torn open. But Rumlow didn't care much for Steve's comfort, he cared about getting into his ass as quickly as he could. He'd already been more patient than Steve deserved.

"You want me?" He hissed, roughly slapping the outside of Steve's thigh with the flat of his free hand, scissoring his fingers again. Steve's rim was tight around his first two fingers, his body sucking him in greedily as he forced him open. He wouldn't relax. The tight ring of muscle clenched around him, his fingers straining to scissor open. Abruptly, Rumlow gave up, drawing his fingers out of Steve's body, traces of blood on his skin. He pressed close, breath whispering across his lips, his mouth drawn into a vicious sneer. _"Hmm?_ You want me to fuck your tight little ass just like always, y'goddamn slut? _Answer me."_ He demanded, slicking his cock and letting the obscenely red shaft slip between the cheeks of Steve's ass.

"Yes-" Steve gasped raggedly, a thin trail of tears slipping into his hairline. He hurt, _god_ he hurt. But it wasn't enough. "Yes- _yes_ \- please- _God,_ I need- I-I-"

Rumlow's expression flickered briefly with disgust before he smirked cruelly, just sliding his slicked cock between the cheeks of Steve's ass, beginning to roll his hips, pleasuring himself without giving Steve a thing. His hands slid down, pressing the cheeks of his ass together, fucking between the soft lobes, Steve shuddering, and squirming from the lack of stimulation. His untouched cock was drooling beads of milky fluid across his stomach. "I know." He snarled derisively. "You always want to open up for me like a whore don't you Stevie? My little _bitch..._ my sweet little bitch." He purred, the snarl turning to a pandering coo, as he kissed Steve, just once, just sweetly, before wrapping his hand around his cock and pressing the weeping, flushed head against Steve's slicked, underprepared ass.

Steve abruptly jolted, his eyes flashing with clarity as he suddenly squirmed underneath him, fumbling at the sheets. "Ha-hang on- hang on-" he stammered, face flushed and beaded with sweat as his hand dipped into the still open nightstand drawer. "Brock-" he panted. "Brock- just- just hang on I'll- I'll find the condoms..."

Suddenly, Rumlow's rough hand curled around Steve's wrist dragging it above his head and pinning it forcefully to the mattress. "Will you forget about the fucking _condoms?"_ Rumlow growled, deftly finding Steve's opposite wrist and pinning it with the first, lording over him, a wicked grin on his lips. "Just _leave it,"_ he purred, his tone easing encouragingly. "It's _fine_. It'll be _fun."_

Steve's eyes widened, uneasiness coiling in his gut and he squirmed under Rumlow's rough hands, cheeks flushed scarlet. "I- I think we should use condoms," he stammered, trying to keep his tone open, and reasonable despite the nausea rising in his throat.

" _I_ think you're too uptight," Rumlow responded, latching onto his throat and sucking another mark, before drawing back with a wolfish grin. "Let's see how you loosen up with my cock in yer ass."

Steve's heart was slamming against his rib cage, the blush suddenly draining from his cheeks, leaving him pale as death as he realized that he _wasn't stopping._ Rumlow pushed forward, and Steve could feel the pressure of his bare cockhead trying to breach his entrance; slick, and weeping fluid against his torn rim. _"Wait-"_ he blurted, "Wait- wait- Brock- I- I'm not comfortable with this. I- I'm-"

"You're _Captain fucking America,"_ Rumlow snapped suddenly, his grip tightening on his wrists, his teeth bared in a savage snarl. "It takes you all of a _week_ to heal from a snapped femur! You get a bruise and it's gone in ten minutes, and you want me to believe yer afraid of gettin' a little _spunk_ in your ass?" He scoffed, looking down at him with something bordering disgust. He scoffed in his face. "You can't even _get_ sick, so stop being such a pussy about it and shut your goddamn mouth!"

Steve recoiled, his stomach dropping sickly, but all of Rumlow's vicious twisting and manipulation hadn't been for nothing, because all Steve was afraid of, was that Brock would decided that Steve wasn't worth his time, that he didn't want him anymore...that he'd have to be alone, again. _He couldn't go back to being alone._ He couldn't face it. He- He couldn't- He _needed_ him- He deserved everything Rumlow did to him...

So Steve closed his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as panic thrashed in his gut. He tried to block it out, imagine it was happening to someone else, but the image shattered as Rumlow suddenly _snapped_ his hips forward, and in one, vicious thrust, forced the entire length of his cock into Steve's body.

Steve screamed, his erection flagging from the pain as Rumlow's thick, heavy cock stretched him open, forcing his rim wide. _He wasn't ready. He hadn't had enough time._ Steve squirmed, tears running down his face as he gasped in pain, his wrists still pinned helplessly above his head. His wrists were locked in a death grip, Rumlow physically _restraining_ him from fighting him. Pinning him down. Trapping him. Hurting him.   _"God-"_   Steve choked tightly, suddenly stifling a scream as Rumlow slammed the length of his cock into his body again. Pain lanced through him, something tearing and blood squelched down around the base of Rumlow's cock as he fell into a rhythm, fucking Steve viciously, pinning him to the bed as he sobbed in pain. Each thrust dragged his whole shaft across Steve's ragged insides, pulling out until just the head was caught in his tight, bleeding heat, before he would slam home again, sheathed to the hilt inside Steve; using his shaking body like a toy.

The bed frame cracked against the wall with each thrust, Rumlow growling in pleasure as Steve's ass tightened spasmodically around him. Rogers was fucking _unbelievable._  He was hot, and tight, his blood adding to the lube inside him, Rumlow's cock squeezing slickly through the too-tight hole. He was trembling underneath of him, sobbing, and squirming against his hands, but not using his strength to wrench away the way Rumlow knew he could. _He deserved this and he knew it._ "There-" Brock panted raggedly, feeling Steve's raw skin around him, soft, vulnerable, and utterly _exposed._ "That's my good boy," Rumlow purred, Steve trembling violently under him. "My sweet little whore. Tell me you like it."

The demand fell hollow on Steve's ears, his mind pitched in a whirl of pain, and fear, and guilt, his stomach churning sickly. He could feel Rumlow inside him, his pulse throbbing inside his body. Skin to skin. Wet, and slick, and too intimate, too _raw._ He could feel the other man's cock drooling precome into the tear in his inner walls; stinging, and burning. His cock rubbed a patch inside of him raw, his balls and thighs smacking against Steve's ass with every deep, filthy thrust.

Pain _cracked_ across Steve's cheek and he lurched, eyes flashing open as he realized that Rumlow had slapped him. "Tell me you like it." He demanded, his teeth bared, expression twisted into a sneer. He bent over Steve, vicious, and dominating, slamming into him, deeper with every thrust.

"I-" Steve choked, but his voice betrayed him, breaking into a sob.

"Fucking useless bitch." Rumlow spat, forcing into him, his cock throbbing inside Steve's body from the constant friction. "I swear to god, your only good as a tight hole to fuck. _Pathetic._ You stupid _slut,_ say you like it."

Steve shuddered violently, his kiss swollen lips twitching soundlessly as Rumlow fucked him, slamming bruises into his hips and thighs. He didn't think he could have spoken even if he wanted to. He was stuck, his mind white with pain and unwanted pleasure, laying on the bed sobbing as Rumlow forced himself deeper into him, violating him at his most intimate level. A white hot spark crackled up his spine as Rumlow hit the sensitive nerve cluster inside him, sending a fresh wave of tears spilling down his cheeks.

Rumlow's pace broke for just a moment, watching his reaction before he reestablished his rhythm, purposefully dragging his cock over his prostate, watching him writhe as a grin turned up the corners of his mouth. Using the strength of his legs to curl Steve's spine, he braced himself over him, holding down his wrists as he slammed in, deeper, and deeper, aiming with every thrust for the place that made Steve sob. He watched his breathing grow uneven, his cock twitching against his abs, messy with precome, and flushed from the unreleased, unwanted pleasure.

But Steve didn't deserve to finish.

Rumlow eased off his prostate, denying Steve the stimulation that would have wrenched the painful orgasm from his body. He shifted his angle, just enough, just so he could fuck him with nothing but pain. It was devoid of pleasure, or affection. It was a punishment. It was agony, nothing else. Rumlow slammed into him without so much as a twinge of guilt, his heart rate elevated as he made Steve to be completely submissive, so perfectly under his control, so utterly ruined. He was _filthy,_ and Rumlow wanted to claim him so no one else would ever want to fuck him again.

_Steve Rogers is mine_

Abruptly, Rumlow doubled forward, his forehead grinding into Steve's collarbone, a ragged gasp wrenching from his lips as his cock pulsed, spilling his hot wet release into Steve's torn body. He shuddered through his orgasm, another streak of come spurting from the tip of his cock, adding the to filthy mess of blood and lube inside him. Steve's body clenched involuntarily around his hyper-sensitive cock, and Rumlow moaned, low in the back of his throat, shivering, his mouth dropped open in a silent cry of pleasure. He could feel his body still thrumming with orgasmic energy, the excess of his release dripping down his balls and on to the sheet, trickling messily down Steve's thighs and between the cheeks of his ass. "God-" he gasped after a long moment, his cramping fingers uncurling from Steve's bruised wrists, sliding down his chest and ribs. "God Stevie...you're so fucking _good, mmmhh-_ oh _fuck...fuck_ you're good..."

Steve lay under him, suddenly frozen. He felt the raw, drag against his sensitive insides as Rumlow drew out, blood and come suddenly spilling onto the mattress between his legs, before it slowed, dripping out of his body, thick, and _wet._ He felt wrong. He felt wrong deep into his body, all the way up inside him. It wasn't the burn of Rumlow stretching him open, it wasn't the stinging tear in his raw, puffy rim...it was feeling Rumlow coating him on the inside. It was being claimed, marked. _..owned_ _..._ He wanted to sob.

Rumlow looked down at Steve, the tears drying on the other man's cheeks, but his eye were unfocused, and distant. His lips were parted ever so slightly, and there was something terrified, and wounded echoing out from the emptiness of his stare. He wanted to slap the look of his face. But it was time to pretend again. Rumlow could get away with treating Steve like that in bed, but once it was over he had to be nice again. He had to convince Steve that it had been a consensual scene, and given how badly he'd warped Steve's perception of reality, it wouldn't be hard.

 _"Stevie..."_ He whispered in a teasing, sing song tone. "Come on Stevie, snap out of it, pal..." Leaning down, Rumlow feathered a soft kiss against his numb lips and Steve's eyes snapped back into focus, darting up to him; livid with terror and pain. Rumlow drew back from the kiss, a little smirk curling the corners of his mouth as he reached out, gripping the side of Steve's neck where the bleeding bite marks were already scabbing over, the bruising fading from purple to yellow. _"There,"_ he purred, before he glanced down his eyes meeting level with Steve's. _  
_

Rumlow blinked, for a moment, feigning confusion as to the nature of the look before his expression suddenly dropped, softening. "Aw c'mon Cap..." He murmured, his thumb grazing along his jaw as he caught the other man's lips in a soft kiss, drawing him up by his jaw. "You know all those ugly names are just play..." He coaxed, shifting his weight back over him, warm, and comforting, his hands rubbing soothingly over his heaving ribs. " _Just a game_..." He murmured, almost to himself, kissing Steve's lips, and cheeks and eyelids. "That's all...we play rough like this all the time, it don't mean a thing... _wouldn't hurt my best guy.._."

Steve suddenly jerked with pain, feeling like his chest was on fire, like he had shrapnel lodged in his gut. _My best guy._.. Steve could feel this throat tightening, burning tears sliding down his cheeks as his body moved against his will, arms coming up to curl around Rumlow's neck; clinging to the man who hurt him.

_Why did he have to sound so much like Bucky?_

_It wasn't fair._

_It hurt too badly._

_He couldn't take this anymore._

Rumlow cradled Steve close, holding him as he cried, his tears wetting his neck, slipping down his scarred chest. For once, he didn't mock Steve for crying, he couldn't afford it. There was a chance he'd already pushed his luck too far tonight; pushed _Steve_ to far tonight. It was a delicate balance, because all Rumlow wanted to do was hurt him. He want to cuff his wrists to the bed post and fuck him until Steve _begged_ for mercy, _screamed_ for help. He wanted to tear him apart and watch him break, and _bleed._ But he had to ensure that Steve stayed with him willingly for as long as possible. This was fun in it's own right, it just meant that he had to tolerate a little comfort and restraint. His muscular arms tightened around Steve as he lay half on top of him, his fingers tips dragging softly across the back of his neck.

They lay there for some time, Rumlow whispering words of comfort into Steve's ear as the sobs faded to little, choking gasps, and the violent tremors decreased to a tiny quivering deep in his burning muscles. Slowly, Steve came back to himself, a cold resignation settling in a knot in his gut. He shifted, Rumlow murmuring something in protest before he disentangled himself from Rumlow's limbs, his body raw, cock aching. He hadn't been able to get off. He hadn't wanted to, but now everything hurt and all he wanted was to go back to his apartment, and put a bullet in his head.

He'd see how well his accelerated healing handled it.

He'd been curious about that for a long time now...

Besides, Rumlow never wanted him after he finished. Just like every other time they'd ever had sex, only Steve wouldn't wait for Rumlow to throw him out. On top of everything else that had happened tonight, he couldn't take that too. Rumlow let him go, watching as the other man squirmed out of his arms, and slipped from the bed. His feet had only just hit the floor when his knees buckled at the pain and he caught his weight on the edge of the bed, a whimper stopping in his throat. He froze there for a moment, white-faced, looking sick before he slowly got his feet back under him. Steve straightened his legs with a grimace, his eyes reddening as he refused to let himself cry anymore. He hobbled silently over to his discarded pile of clothing, his hands shaking as he tried to pull himself together, his flushed cock still half-hard between his thighs.

Rumlow dropped back against the headboard, fumbling a cigarette and lighter off the nightstand and lighting it up as he'd gotten in a habit of doing after sex. It was only when Steve started trying to pull on his clothing did Rumlow step in. "What do you think you're doing?" He asked, grinning around the cigarette, Steve's tears drying on his neck.

Steve looked back, eyes red, face drawn with pain as he saw him sitting there, so relaxed, like nothing had happened at all. "I- " he started, but it came out so husky Steve could barely hear himself, and he stopped, clearing his throat painfully. When he spoke again, his voice was as even as he could manage. "I should head out." He murmured, dropping his eyes away. "I don't want to intrude on your evening." The words were polite, but biting, laced with pain, and loneliness. _'You don't want me here'' 'I won't give you the satisfaction of throwing me out.' 'You-'_

" _Stick around_." Rumlow said abruptly, and Steve stopped dead, his boxers drawn halfway up his thighs. He froze, slowly lifting his head, his brow furrowed in pain, and suspicious confusion. From the bed, Brock arched his eyebrows, exhaling a puff of smoke. "Yer hearin' going bad, Cap?" He pressed, slipping off the bed long enough to strip the fitted sheet that was soaked with Rumlow's come and Steve's blood, and tuck the flat sheet over the mattress before dropping back down. _"Come on._ " He said impatiently, jerking his chin to the empty space beside him.

Steve stared back at him, and the more confused he became the more he hurt, because he wasn't even sure what was real anymore. Rumlow had been vicious, but- it had been a game- hadn't it? _Had_ it? Could all of that really have just been _rough play?_ He must not have been clear enough in his refusal...he didn't know the rules to the games he played and Brock had thought he had. He had thought he was playing along...so the pain...the fear, and betrayal...it was his own fault...and now...now Rumlow was _asking_ him to stay...Rumlow had never stayed when he came to Steve's home, even when he _begged_ him; even when he was afraid of being alone because he thought he might kill himself he didn't stay. And now he was _asking him...offering..._ Rumlow _wanted_ him...and Steve was afraid to be alone.

"I-" Steve stammered, torn, and afraid, and not sure if he wanted Rumlow to touch him again. "I thought you didn't have time for-" but Rumlow cut over him.

 _"Steve."_ He said firmly, the word coming out almost an order and Steve visibly flinched, frightened. Suddenly Rumlow crushed out the cigarette and rose from the bed, crossing the room in two long stride before stopping dead in front of him. Rumlow hesitated, begrudging the softness, but relaxing, and warming his expression, as he cracked a crooked smirk. "Come on." He murmured, just between the two of them. "Come back to bed. Let me take care of you."

Steve felt tears burning in his eye but refused to let them slip. He couldn't cry anymore. Rumlow would mock him, he always did. But it had been so long since someone had taken care of him...so long since he hadn't been forced to sleep alone, so Steve let himself be led back to bed.

Rumlow drew him down onto the mattress, uncustomary tender and he gently slipped Steve's boxers back off of his body, tossing them to the floor and pulling a blanket over their shoulders. He eased close, his muscular, hardened arms wrapped securely around Steve's chest and waist, and he pressed his stubbly jaw against the joint of his neck and shoulders, slotting his thigh between Steve's legs. As much as Rumlow loathed cuddling, he had to admit that some part of this were nice. He could feel Steve's heart racing in his chest, slamming against his rib cage like a frightened animal. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, and his untouched, aching cock resting against his thigh. Steve was scared, and desperate, and deeply uncomfortable, and it made having to waste his time snuggling worth it. Rumlow leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the back of Steve's neck, feeling him flinch.

"Go to sleep..." He ordered softly, trailing his fingers down his skin, rubbing his chest comfortingly. He laved gentle kisses across Steve's shoulder blades, stroking, and brushing with his hands, tenderly fondly Steve's cock as it began to finally soften. After several long minutes of just stroking Steve's quivering body, Rumlow lifted and arm, and clicked off the switch by the bed, and the room dropped off into darkness.

Steve felt Rumlow's bristly face nuzzle against the soft skin of the back of his neck, felt him exhale low, and soft as his naked body curled in closer. His fingers still twitched against his skin, one resting on his stomach, the other on his chest. It was what he's wanted for months now, and all he felt was _guilt._

It was overwhelming. _Sickening._ Steve could still feel blood, and Rumlow's cooling essence squelching out of his body every time his muscles involuntarily contracted at the memory of being so roughly taken. But it wasn't fear of any kind of illness that had made Steve so insistent, it was more than general safety and good practice. The guilt that turned his stomach to lead and made nausea rise in his throat stemmed from feeling like he'd given away something that had once belonged _exclusively_ to Bucky.

They had been stupid kids. They hadn't been thinking, just _feeling,_ just soaking in the amazing sensation that they could love each other; that they _did_ love each other. Bucky had been sixteen, Steve fifteen. They had shared their first tentative, fearful kiss, and had gotten swept along by the heady rush of stupid, thoughtless love. Steve's Ma had been working, Bucky's folks were out, and they'd made love on Bucky's creaking mattress, touching, and kissing, and finding out what felt good. They had been each others first times, and the evening had been filled with wet, clumsy kisses, low moan of pleasure, and squawks of pain that changed into helpless giggles and whispered ' _sorry, sorry_ 's. Bucky had shuddered with a pitching gasp of _'Stevie-'_ as he spilled his release into the fragile young man's body, Steve on his heels, streaking their chests with white. It had felt so _good...hot,_ and _wet,_ and _intimate._ Steve had never felt closer to Bucky, still unable to believe that he was _allowed_ to be this close to Bucky, and neither of them had given it a second thought, until the next day.

Of course when the sun rose and the post-coital bliss had faded, Bucky had panicked, upset that he might have done anything to make his best friend's already fragile health worse. He'd guilted himself nearly to tears before Steve had broken in, asking if he'd _really_ done so much fooling around that they had to worry. Flushing across his perfect cheekbones, Bucky had admitted that he'd done _plenty_ of fooling around, but never like _that._ Hands, mouths, but that had been as far as it ever went; Steve was his first time as surely as he had been Steve's

So they'd put it out of their minds, with the promise that they were gonna be careful from now on, but Steve had secretly hung on to that memory. In the time they lived, there was never a change for guys like them, so Steve understood when Bucky took girls out. He appreciated when Bucky tried to find _him_ a gal too. But not matter what else happened, or no matter who else they were with in their lifetimes, Bucky still had that part of him, _totally,_ and _completely._

_And now he'd given it away._

Steve's guilt was too suffocating, and Rumlow's abuse and manipulation too intricate for him to do anything other than blame himself. Rumlow had made sure he he couldn't accept it for what it was; force. _Rape._ He couldn't accept that Rumlow had _taken_ it from him, that he _hadn't_ given it willingly. All Steve knew was that he felt wrong. He could still feel Rumlow deep inside his body, slick, and wet, and it made him feel nauseous. He wanted to _hurl,_ he wanted to scrub his skin until it bled, he wanted- he wanted it to be Bucky wrapping him in his arms, not Rumlow.

But he couldn't have any of that, so Steve waited until Rumlow's breathing had evened out, and then let the agonizing, silent sobs tear from his body, bleeding out the grief like a poison before his body finally gave into the exhaustion, and he slept.


	4. T-15 Hours to Director Assassination

_"Bucky- that tickles, B- Bucky- Bucky stop!" Steve gasped, his crooked spine arching as Bucky pressed feather light kisses all down his chest and stomach. His mouth was soft as it dragged over his prominent ribs, and the tiny young man felt his sinful red lips turning up into a warm smile as he kissed lower, tracing his mouth down his hipbones._

_"Easy Stevie, just relax..." He whispered, nibbling at his concave stomach, coaxing a stifled little choke of laughter from his slender lover._

_Steve's artistic fingers twisted through Bucky's chestnut locks, tugging at his hair as he tried not to giggle, Bucky's perfect mouth still working over his skin. "I swear to god Barnes I'll-" But Steve's words abruptly died in his throat as Bucky dipped his head lower, nuzzling between his legs, pressing a tiny little kiss against the head of his cock, and the younger boy's playful snickering morphed into a low groan of pleasure. Just having Bucky's mouth on him, tracing lower, and lower, had been enough to get him stiff, his erection pressing into Bucky's stomach as he worked down, but at the touch, his slit grew shiny and wet with milky precome, and he watched Bucky's eyes glint with delight._

_"Look'it you..." He whispered, smirking teasingly, but the softness in his eyes was pure reverence and adoration. "So pretty...All nice and ready for me..."_

_Steve whined as Bucky's breath ghosted over his shaft, the lack of solid contact making him ache, but he knew Bucky wouldn't make him wait forever. He would take care of him. Still, Steve could feel his arousal racing up and down the length of his spine, and a bead of precome slid down the length of his cock, dripping with a muted tap against the threadbare sheets._

_A soft purr escaped Bucky's lips, and leaned closer, tracing his lips against the head of his cock, his tongue flicking out to collect the milky fluid from his slit. "Mmmhhh....Stevie....yer drippin' like a faucet, baby doll... Want me to take care of you?" He whispered, the words spoke between tiny little touches of his tongue that tickled almost worse than the feather light kisses against his sensitive stomach._

_Steve squirmed needily, his eyes squeezed closed, flushed a delicate pink across his sunken cheeks. "Please-" He breathed, kneading through his hair, tugging at the dark strands, feeling Bucky tug his scrawny legs over the tops of his muscular shoulders._

_"This your idea of breakfast in bed?"_

_Steve tugged his face against his lap with a low whine of frustration. "Suck my dick, Barnes...." he gasped, and felt Bucky's mouth widen into a grin before enveloping his cock in its perfect, wet heat._

_"With pleasure..."_

Steve shifted in his sleep, squirming, his cheeks painted with a delicate flush in the morning sunlight, his golden blond hair clinging to the sheen of sweat on his brow. His mind registered pleasure building up in his body, straining, pressing outward, making his toes curl, and his heels dig into the base of a man's spine. He could feel muscular shoulder's, solid, under the crook of his knees. He could feel the heavy tendrils of sleep uncoiling from around him but couldn't seem to reorient himself, feeling his body teetering on the edge of an orgasm that he couldn't remember being guided up to...or did he? _Hadn't he just been with-_

There was a hot, wet mouth enveloping his cock.

_Bucky_

Steve couldn't shake the fog that filled his head, and he didn't want to. He was groggy, and disoriented, his eyelids heavy, lashes crusted shut from the tears that had dried on his face; tears he couldn't remember crying. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was the comforting warmth, the wet heat of the mouth working so skillfully on his body. _He felt safe_. Steve's eyes squeezed tighter shut for just a moment before he breathed a low sigh of pleasure, opening them slowly. He stared up at the bedroom ceiling, his vision bleary, and grainy. Warm, white light blotted out details, leaving only shapes, bright, and hazy. His body felt like lead, sunk into the mattress, relaxed, and comfortable, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Steve didn't feel the weight that sat on his chest, suffocating him, draining his life, and energy. He heavily shifted one arm, his fingers curling unconsciously into a thatch of dark, chestnut brown hair. As his vision finally began to focus, he could make out broad muscular shoulders, and a sleepy little smile touched the corners of his mouth, his fingers caressing tenderly through the brunet locks. Steve's lips formed the name, but his body refused to push any volume, so it escaped only in a breath, only for Steve to hear.

He was still disoriented from sleep, the haze of pleasure only furthering his confusion but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd missed him too much, dream or not. It couldn't be real, but Steve wanted to savor every second of it. He could feel his body coiling tighter, the man's tongue pressing into his slit, tasting the precome on his tongue as he hollowed out his cheeks, the pressure making Steve's vision burst with white. Rough stubble left a pink burn between his thighs, and a low moan escaped Steve's lips. He loved when Bucky forgot to shave...

His head was spinning; low, breathy gasps falling from his lips as his fingers tightened through the man's hair. All at once, Steve felt the tension uncoil. His hips jerked as his cock abruptly pulsed, spilling streaks of wet come into his partner's mouth, the pressure around his shaft tightening as he swallowed around his length, and Steve curled forward, letting slip a low gasp. _"Bucky-"_ he choked his voice breaking softly as he clung to him, chest heaving, eyes falling closed as waves of pleasure washed through his body, prickling up his spine. And as Steve grew more alert, he clung to the feeling, the brief moment before he had to accept reality, the brief moment before the full realization of where he was, and who he was with could sink in.

And then the wet warmth slid down the length of his shaft, flushed lips brushing over the head of his cock before drawing off entirely, leaving him cold.

Rumlow's tongue slid across his lips, excess come caught in the corners of his mouth. He raised his dark hooded eyes to Steve's face, flushed, and slack with pleasure, and felt his stomach turning with a sick jealously. _'Bucky'_ He wanted to slap Steve for moaning Barnes' name, hurt him for forgetting that he was _his_ now, and everything he may have given to Barnes before now belonged to him. He'd marked Steve on his most intimate level, and it made Rumlow's blood boil with rage to hear another's name spill from Steve's mouth. But he stilled his fury, because today he needed to be delicate. He'd come too close with Steve yesterday, he pushed him right to the limit of what his manipulation and abuse would allow, and maybe a little over. Steve had been one wrong word away from breaking; from leaving him, even if that meant being alone all over again. He'd almost lost him, and now, he had to give him every reason in the world to doubt what his own senses had told him about the night before. Steve had to believe that he'd misperceived the entire situation. He had to reaffirm Steve's belief that he was the best thing that ever happened to him. Today, he was the perfect boyfriend.

Brock wet his mouth once more, before sliding slowly up the length of Steve's body laying soft lines of kisses up his stomach, and chest. He kissed him like he was delicate, and priceless, like he _loved_ him. He kissed him so tenderly as to wash away all the pain he'd inflicted on him hours ago, smooth it over, like it had never happened at all.

Steve's eyes were still closed. As the pleasure slowly faded from his body, his expression had fallen, but his eyes had remained obstinately closed. He was blocking out the world, clinging to every moment that he could pretend it was Bucky kissing his chest so tenderly, and for a short while, he could _almost_ believe it. Because Rumlow _never_ kissed like that. He could feel the mouth working further up his neck, up his jaw, leaving in its wake a tingle of bristles that were thicker than Bucky's over-night scruff ever got. When warm breath ghosted over his lips, Steve shivered, his eyes squeezing tighter closed. _He didn't want to see. He didn't want to open his eyes and not being looking into the face of the man he loved..._

Rumlow watch Steve's expression tighten the closer he got, before he laid a soft kiss against his lips, and felt the younger man flinch under the gentle touch, before exhaling; low, and shaky. Rumlow held the silence for just a moment longer before touching his mouth to his once more, light, and tender. "Sorry to disappoint..." He murmured against his mouth, letting a little sympathy creep into his voice, letting Steve think that he was sorry he couldn't be who he really wanted.

Guilt stabbed through Steve's gut like a rusty blade, and his eyes flashed open, seeing Rumlow just above him. His dark, deep-set eyes were fixed on Steve, distant, and unreadable, his lips flushed and glistening with excess saliva. Abruptly, Steve reached up, his hand desperately cradling the side of Rumlow's neck and drawing him close with a low gasp of pain. _"God-"_ he breathed helplessly, tugging his forehead against his, expression twisted with exhausted misery. "Brock- I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't mean- I- _I'm sorry,_ I-"

Rumlow stifled a soft noise as Steve pulled him close, clinging to him, guilt seeping from his pores like a toxin. He could smell it on him. The guilt. The regret. "Hey," Rumlow murmured, his hand sliding up from Steve's ribs, gripping the back of his neck; rough, and familiar. "Hey- hey- come on, shut up." His stubble scrapped across Steve's neck as he nuzzled close, kissing his throat and jaw, his fingers massaging at the joint of his neck and skull. "Shut up..." He breathed gently. "Forget it..." Brock tenderly drew Steve's mouth up into a kiss, ignoring the morning breath, and the taste of come still lingering on his lips. He held Steve's face as the younger man cradled his jaw in both hands, still riddled with guilt, still fearful that he'd hurt he lover by breathing another's name with such reverence and longing. His touch was pleading, and sincere. Rumlow kissed him, deep, and slow, until the tension uncoiled from his chest, and his breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling smoothly under Brock's hand. After a long moment, he drew back from the kiss, his chapped lips catching on Steve's soft mouth like calloused fingers on silk, his breath ghosting across his face before he allowed a few inches of space to break between them. He pulled away, scrutinizing Steve from under hooded eyes. His stare bore into him, deep, and curious, as though trying to peel back Steve's layers to expose his damaged core. One finger dragged up Steve's chest, grazing the front of his neck before moving to brush over the lush swell of his lower lip, staring at his mouth, contemplating the kiss.

Steve looked up at him, the silence heavy around them. He couldn't get a read on Rumlow's expression. The look was too unfamiliar. He couldn't tell what he was thinking. Steve still couldn't help but think he was upset; it wouldn't exactly be out of character, but he didn't look angry the way he had expected him too. His expression was soft, and distant, staring curiously as he traced his mouth, like there was a question he couldn't quite bring himself to ask; words he wasn't sure how to voice.

Suddenly, he shook the expression, and the teasing, asshole Brock with his barbed sarcasm and painfully soothing Brooklyn drawl was back. "Here I am try'nt be nice and I get you going all teary-eyed on me first thing in the morning." He scoffed, but there was no bite to his words, it was just how he knew how to communicate. It was just Brock.

Steve managed a tight little smile, dropping his gaze away, his cheeks coloring with shame. "No- I'm sorry...It felt good. _..really."_ He pressed, lifting his eyes and trying to make the smile reach them. He wanted to explain to Rumlow, tell him about him and Bucky, he was sure he guessed, but he deserved to be told outright. But before Steve could open his mouth, Rumlow had cut over him.

"Yer damn right." He grinned, his hand cradling the back of Steve's skull as he pulled him in for a brief, firm kiss. "I know how to give a blow job Rogers, I just tend to like gettin' them better. Now come on." He growled, nipping at his chin, before he swung his legs off the bed. "Let's see if there's enough in my fridge to feed a super soldier."

Steve blinked, lost, before he followed Rumlow out of bed in a bit of a daze. Was this the same guy who'd broken his bones in the gym, snarling at him not to be a pussy? Was it really the same guy who pinned him down and fuck him till he bled? Who didn't listen when Steve said something was too much? Who mocked him when he cried? He wasn't sure it was possible. He wasn't suddenly chipper, and emotionally supportive, he was still a bit of an asshole like he'd always been but it felt... _light_...harmless. It felt like real, good natured teasing now, instead of cutting insults thinly coated in sugar. Steve slipped off the mattress, bending to pick up his clothing from where it had been strewn the night before and expecting pain. But overnight, Steve's body had repaired itself, knitting together torn skin, and healing bruises, bite marks, and sore muscles. It made Steve second guess the trauma he _thought_ he remembered.

Steve had just stooped to pull his boxers on, when a surprised yelp was torn from his lips, Rumlow's leathery hand smacking flat across his ass. He jerked upright, the clothing hitting the floor as one hand instinctively flew back to cover his bare, now _stinging_ ass, catching just the tips of Rumlow's fingers as they slipped off. He turned, shooting him an ugly look. Rumlow met the stare, quirking an eyebrow with a rugged grin, innocently fixing the waistband of his boxers. _"What?"_ He asked crookedly, his tongue poking distractingly between his teeth. "I like you better when you're naked."

Steve didn't humor him with a reply. He scooped up his clothing for the second time, this time around, managing to get into his boxers and jeans before following Rumlow out of the bedroom, his shirt hanging out of his back pocket. By the time he got to the kitchen, Rumlow was staring into the open refrigerator, bent at the waist, his ass obscenely defined in fitted, black boxers, and Steve was sorely tempted to return the stinging smack, but resigned to keep his hands to himself.

"Hey, Cap," Rumlow called, digging around through a couple of shelves. "How many eggs do you need to make that tank of yours run?"

Steve looked up quickly, seeing Brock looking back at him over his muscular, scarred shoulder blade. He blinked, a little taken aback. "Whatever's the least trouble." He answered, still baffled by Rumlow's attention to his comfort, still thrust into a tailspin by his genuine warmth. But Brock just scrunched his nose, pulling out two cartons of eggs.

 _"How many?"_ He demanded, his tone laced with annoyance.

"Uhh- three," Steve stammered, seizing the first answer that came to mind. Steve could eat half his body weight with little trouble, but he didn't want to take advantage of Rumlow's uncharacteristic kindness. If he didn't cause too much trouble, maybe Rumlow wouldn't throw him out.

Brock arched his brow, still skeptical. "You mean three _dozen,_ right?" He scoffed, grinning as he started cracking eggs into the pan, the whites sizzling as they hit the hot metal. "You're getting five, now sid'down before your blood sugar drop and you swoon on me like a dame."

Steve dropped down into the kitchen chair, not arguing. He was too stunned to argue. He felt...weird...like he wasn't sure what was real anymore...he _wasn't_ sure. Not at all. This morning, Rumlow was so _warm..._ he was _gentle,_ and any ribbing was softened by an easy smile, and a playful little glint in his dark eyes...Had last night been some kind of vicious nightmare? He didn't have anything to prove it _wasn't._ He _thought_ he remembered feeling his body tearing, bleeding as Rumlow fucked him, unprotected. He _thought_ he remembered the deep, burning pain; the sickening shame, and guilt that followed in it's wake. But his body was healed now as though it had never been damaged, and Steve was beginning to doubt his own senses as to whether or not it _had_ been in the first place. One one hand, loosing his grip on reality was terrifying. On the other though...maybe it meant he hadn't given away the last part of him that Bucky had had totally to himself, that maybe he _hadn't_ betrayed him. They had always known that they would be with other people in their lives, they had accepted, and understood that. But it had been a silent agreement between them, a promise. _You're mine and I'm yours, forever...We'll always have that..._

Unconsciously, Steve slipped his hand down the back of his jeans and boxers, feeling down his tailbone, slipping his fingers between the round, firm cheeks of his ass. He prodded gently, still expecting some kind of pain, but feeling nothing. The soreness was entirely gone. He pressed a little deeper, tracing his rim before carefully working one finger inside-

-and feeling slick.

His stomach dropped out from under him, any apatite he may have had morphing into nausea. He had thought- He'd _hoped-_ maybe he hadn't...maybe he hadn't walked all over Bucky's memory, tossed away what was supposed to have been his first and last...Of course, protection was always considered to be a good practice, but it had meant _more_ than that to Steve, because the only person he'd ever trusted on such an intimate level, the only person he'd ever _wanted_ on such an intimate level was Bucky...It was supposed to be him, _only_ him...but now Rumlow owned that part of him too... Something that still clung to sense, something that Rumlow hadn't corrupted tried to whisper that he had _taken_ that part of him, that he _hadn't_ given it willingly like he had to Bucky, but Steve stuffed it away. He couldn't blame Brock for this. He hadn't been clear enough. _He couldn't have know..._

"What? I didn't take care of you good enough earlier?"

Steve startled, Rumlow's words breaking through the haze of guilt and shame and he instinctively yanked his hand out of the back of his jeans, flushing crimson across his cheekbones, feeling the heat in his chest. Rumlow was half turned from the stove, an eyebrow arched, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

He tipped his chin towards him with a sly grin, having not yet registered the look of sickened shame on Steve's face. "Y'coulda told me if you needed more..." Brock purred, turning the heat down to low and strolling over to where Steve sat; frozen. "I wouldn't have been so quick to roll you outta bed...could'a gotten my tongue all over that sweet ass of yours, rimmed you till your thighs were shakin' and you were drooling into the sheets..." His powerful hands framed Steve's narrow, tapered, waist, drawing him up from the chair and backing him against the counter; slow, and predatory. _"Or..."_ He breathed. "I could have fucked you good and slow, taken my time with that sensitive little hole, instead of you sitting here fingering yourself like-" _'like a slut._ ' Rumlow bit back the last few words, regardless of how sweet they'd taste spilling from his lips, how _humiliated_ Rogers would look with his cheek and chest flushed all red. But he had to be perfect today, and the perfect guy didn't call their boyfriend a slut just to watch him squirm.

Steve let Rumlow ease him back against the counter, but his heart wasn't in it. It hadn't been since he'd woken up; since he'd realized his dream of Bucky had been just that. A dream. Nothing more.

" _How do you want it?_ " Brock whispered, turning his face into the side of Steve's neck, sucking a pretty little blotch just below his ear, his strong hands sliding down the back of his jeans and boxers, squeezing his ass, his last finger slipping between the cheeks. _"You_ pick today...Tell me how you want it, and I'll give it to you...you're the captain...just say the word..." He murmured, catching Steve's mouth against his own, kissing him against the counter, groping him, running the tip of his little finger over his entrance.

Steve could feel Rumlow's hands flexing, and kneading into his ass, he could feel his mouth, hot and wet on his own, his erection pressing into his stomach, but his mind registered it only dimly. He let himself be kissed, and touched, but his mind felt disconnected, his body even more so. Usually, Brock could nip at his neck in passing at work and have Steve at full mast, but this morning, even with his hips beginning to roll, slow, and sensual against his, even with his hands down his pants and his tongue sliding wetly across his own, Steve didn't feel so much as a _twitch._

And it took Rumlow only a minute to notice.

He broke the kiss with a wet huff, his hands stilling, fingers still curled into Steve's vulnerable flesh. _"Steve,"_ He breathed, with a touch of annoyance, his heart already racing in his chest, the anticipation making the blood pound around his body. "You're _frigid._ Gimme somethin' to work with."

Steve blinked rapidly. He was trying to focus, he really was. He was _trying_ to enjoy it, especially with Rumlow being so gentle this morning, but he couldn't clear his head. He couldn't shake the guilt. "Sorry..." He said huskily, forcing his gaze up from the floor, forcing himself to look Rumlow in the eye. "I- I'm...really not in the mood this morning..."

Brock kept his face impassive, because he really didn't give a _shit_ about what Rogers wanted, but that's not how the game was going to be played today. "I can tell." He said dryly, tweaking the front of his jeans which had remained obstinately flat despite his best efforts. Pulling away, Rumlow turned back to the eggs, rubbing his cock through his boxers with the flat of his hand. "If you're so _not in the mood_ today, mind enlightening me as to why you had your fingers up your ass?" He asked, letting a little bit of a joke slip into his tone, as he flipped the eggs two at a time, the air crackling with noise as they sizzled and cooked through.

The younger man squirmed. What was he supposed to say? _I've lost all grip on what's real and I think I'm going insane? I betrayed the man I've loved my whole life and I can't tell if it was voluntary or not?_ He scrapped those answers. Brock...he wouldn't understand about Bucky. To him, sex was sex, protected or not. First weren't special, and silent promises made as children meant nothing...he'd probably laugh it off...

 _"_ Just _...checking."_ Steve murmured, knowing before the words were even out of his mouth that they wouldn't satisfy Rumlow, but it was the only thing he could think to say, the only words that wouldn't leave his heart a bleeding mess on the kitchen floor.

His brows arched, gaze flickering between Steve, and the stove top as he deftly clicked off the burner, turning the eggs onto a plate. _"Checking?"_ He pressed, his hand finding Steve's belt loop as he guided him towards the table. "Should I even ask?"

Steve's sat, receiving the plate and beginning to eat mechanically. He didn't even taste the food as it went down. "Probably not," He responded, praying that he could take the easy out, and have Rumlow drop the subject. But somehow, it seemed unlikely.

Brock fell silent for a long moment, watching as Steve shoved down the food with his eyes unfocused, face ashen. He looked sick. He doubted those eggs felt any good on his stomach. Rest his elbows on the table top, his fork resting against the side of his plate, Rumlow took a stab at what he _assumed_ was the heart of the problem. It was gonna sting like fuck, but it fell well within the boundaries of acceptable behavior. "Is it about Barnes?"

The looks of instant, guilt-stricken, grief on Steve's face told him he'd hit the nail on the head.

The fork slipped from his fingers, landing on the edge of the plate with a dull clatter, and Steve felt his stomach turning into a knot. He couldn't have this conversation with Rumlow. He couldn't have this conversation with _anyone_ right now. It hurt too much- the guilt was eating him alive- he- he couldn't- _he'd fucked up so bad..._

Rumlow waited in silence, watching Steve look worse by the second, until he looked so tortured, and sick that he was amazed he could keep anything in his stomach down. His eyes were fixed, and blank, staring intently at nothing, as though trying not to blink, trying not to let the wetness in his eyes show. He wanted to run, Brock could see it in his eyes, he wanted to _bolt,_ and Rumlow couldn't have that. If Steve ever ran from him, for any reason, he wasn't sure he could get him back. So he slipped a hand forward, moving slow, and careful, his dark eyes never leaving his face until one hardened, scarred hand curled around Steve's own.

" _You were in love with him weren't you?"_

Steve jerked, the words searing into his mind like a hot poker, and he almost wrenched his hand out of Rumlow's, but his grip was steady. His gaze snapped up, but his companion's expression was just as even, and impassive as before, just as unreadable. Steve swallowed back the panic. He didn't want to answer him, but he had asked him directly, and after everything he'd done to hurt Brock, even just this morning, he deserved a straight answer. Steve dipped his head, breaking the desperate eye contact before he wet his lips nervously, a shaky breath escaping him. _"Yeah-"_ he murmured, the husky word barely above a whisper. "Yeah...I was... _my whole life.._."

He expected the confession to coax anger, but Rumlow's sturdy fingers merely flexed on his own, his lips drawing into a thin line, as he dipped his head in a subtle nod. "I wondered..." He said in a low tone, "considering you were moaning _his_ name this morning..." Steve's expression flashed with guilt, his mouth opening to apologize again, but Rumlow pressed on. "You dream about him a lot?"

Steve faltered, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He couldn't say this was a conversation he'd ever imagined having with Rumlow. It wasn't a conversation he'd ever _wanted_ to have with him... _it hurt_...talking about Bucky _hurt._ But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it had been years since he'd honestly talked about Bucky with anyone...the last person had been Peggy, sitting by his side in the bombed out shell of a bar...To him, it felt like it had been five years since Bucky's death, but to the rest of the world, it had been _seventy._ Seventy years was a long time keep something bottled up, and as much as it hurt to talk about it, it might actually be good for him. He'd let the pain of Bucky's death fester inside him, the wound infecting, and putrefying. Speaking about him openly was like pouring alcohol into the wound; viciously painful, but a first step towards cleansing. Steve shifted his hand in Rumlow's, turning his palm face up to curl his fingers around Brock's, returning the gentle pressure. _"A lot_ is an understatement..." He murmured, with a pained little smile. "There aren't many times I go to sleep when I _don't_ dream about him...most of them are-" he faltered, before cutting off, and giving a short shake of his head, abandoning the train of thought, before managing a pained smile. "Well- at least _this_ one was nice..." Steve wasn't ready to talk about the other dreams, the one that played over and over his his head; _lunging, snatching for his hand, and watching him plummet._ The nice dreams were only a drop in the bucket compared to those.

Rumlow smirked faintly, his thumb rubbing over Steve's wrists, before his brow twitched into a curious frown, and he glanced back up to him. "So, if you loved Barnes your whole life...then what was that thing everyone talks about, with you and Carter? Was just a- a rumor? A fling?"

 _"No-"_ Steve snapped, the word coming out more vicious then he intended and he abruptly reigned back the bite in his voice, soothing the sharp pain that had suddenly blossomed in his chest. Tipping down his chin, Steve wet his lips, echoing himself softly. "No..." He breathed, forcing a tiny little twitch of a smile. "It wasn't a rumor...what I had with Peggy was just as real...it was _just...different_ from what I had with Bucky..."

Rumlow tried to settle that information, his brow drawing, because real, _genuine_ love was a concept that he had let become foreign to him. It did no good to get attached to anyone in his line of work, so he'd tied up that chapter of his life and tucked it away where it wouldn't be a nuisance. Now, his instincts towards love had grown so rusty that Steve's words refused to compute in his mind. "Wait-" Brock protested shortly, holding up his free hand, palm towards Steve to stop him. "You're telling me that you fell in love with Carter _...while_ you were still in love with Barnes?"

Steve faltered, trailing off, because he had never thought to think it strange that his two very _different_ loves for two very _different_ people couldn't have existed simultaneously. "Well _...yes,_ in a way..." He tried, but his tone had grown uncertain, because he'd never had to explain it before, he'd just _known._ He'd loved Peggy, and he'd loved Bucky, and his love for one didn't illegitimate his love for the other. But he didn't know how to explain that to someone who didn't already understand. "Bucky and I...we _always_ loved each other, but he and I both knew we couldn't be together...not back then...he always knew that if we were together, someday someone was gonna try and beat the gay outta me and end up killing me...so...we saw other people, he went out with different girls all the time, and I- I- I didn't actually date much, but it was _okay,_ cause at the end of the night Bucky always came back to me, and if one day that changed, I'd know it was because he'd found someone he loved, who made him as happy as he made me...someone who deserved him more than I ever did...and I knew he'd do the same for me..."

"When he shipped out -when we said goodbye- I promised myself that I really was letting him go for good, because when he got back he deserved to settle down with a pretty dame, not a scrawny punk he had to pay through the nose to keep from dropping dead every other week...So I let him go...and then I went and did some of the _dumbest_ things in my life, but because of that I met _Peggy,_ and I fell in love..." He said softly, his expression drawn with a quiet pain, because he never stopped regretting leaving Peggy behind, even though the choice had not been his to make. Swallowing hard, Steve pressed on, needing to finish the story before the ache in his bones grew too sharp for him to bare. "I would have been happy with Peggy my whole life," He breathed, "just like I would have been happy with Buck, or happy _for_ him if he'd found someone he loved...but we didn't get that... _either of us_..." Steve trailed off, his stomach twisting sickly. There had been a time when imagining Bucky with someone else had made him nauseous with jealousy, and of course that feeling had faded as he had accepted his lot in life, but now, it didn't matter; he just wanted Bucky to be _alive,_ to be a part of his life as his lover or not, because that'd always been the _only_ thing that mattered...Him and Bucky, together, _somehow,_ in _some_ form, for the rest of their lives...

_Living his life without him was someone's cruel joke..._

Brock had stilled completely, as Steve had spoken, caught between agitation, and a kind of smug pride. On one hand, he'd been right. Steve and Barnes had been lovers, and his behavior over the past weeks would have hurt like _hell._ On the other hand, he didn't _really_ need Steve's emotional vomit all over him. But there was something else...an ugly little _twinge_ that had begun stirring in his gut from the moment Steve had cried out Bucky's name.

There was no reason for him to be jealous of Barnes. But the jealously was there all the same. It twisted the spite he felt for the Asset into full-blown malice, and Rumlow's resolve steeled. The Asset's mind may be a useless lump of tissue that had been scoured, shocked, and cut and pasted back together so many times that nothing mattered anymore, but Rumlow wouldn't be able to quell the jealousy in his gut until he had _every last thing_ that Steve had _ever_ given to Bucky, _including his love._

Brock's teeth sunk into his lower lip, deliberating his words, weighing them, choosing carefully the words that would make Steve his. It was the last thing he could take away from the Asset -and from Steve- and he _would_ have it. Across the table from him, Steve had lapsed into silence, his expression weary from talking about something so raw, and personal as the loss of the love of his life. He looked fragile, and unguarded. His defenses were down, and Rumlow instinctively knew that he needed to catch Steve before his walls were back up, blocking _anyone,_ and _everyone_ out of his heart.

_"Could you do it again?"_

Steve twitched, the words tugging him out of the haze of weariness, and pain, and he lifted his gaze, confusion lingering behind his eyes. "What?" He asked softly, tone low, and exhausted.

Rumlow hesitated, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips before he inclined his head in a shallow nod. "Could you do it again?... _Let him go_. Fall in love with someone else."

Steve reaction was instantaneous; a hollow _bark_ of laughter escaped his lips, the sound betraying more pain than anything else. "No-" He scoffed shortly, his throat tightening, soft blue eyes flashing with pain. _"No-_ not anymore, it was different before, I cou- I- I..." Steve faltered, the color suddenly draining from his cheeks as the look on Rumlow's face registered in his mind. He was looking at him, really _looking,_ like he was staring straight into his goddamn _soul._ His gaze was earnest, and intense, boring into him, and Steve felt his stomach turn over in his gut, realization hitting him like a bucket of lead. _"Oh-"_ He broke softly, his fingers instinctively trying to free themselves from Brock's but he kept a firm hold on him, staring so hard Steve felt himself unraveling under his gaze; naked, _exposed._ "Brock- I- I _can't-_ I-"

Rumlow slid to his feet, Steve mimicking the movement, trying to clumsily back away as Rumlow closed the distance between them, backing him against the wall, his gaze burning into him like a hot coal. He reached forward, his grip on Steve's hand holding him in place as he grabbed the back of Steve's neck, drawing him forward and pressing his mouth against his. The kiss was firm, and steady, but not crushing. He held Steve against him, keeping him in place without trapping him as he slid his mouth against the warm curve of Steve's, the younger man frozen with shock, and conflicted guilt, and desire. He stood there, one hand trapped in Rumlow's, the other pressing against his muscular chest as though to stop him, but he made no full effort to push him away. His head was spinning, emotions writhing in his gut in a tangled mess that he couldn't begin to unwind.

 _Brock loved him._..He was asking if Steve could love him too..and Steve didn't think the answer was _yes._ For months, Steve had _ached_ for someone to love, and he'd found a temporary drug that soothed that ache in his relationship with Rumlow...but it had just been sex...that was all it could have _ever_ been even though Steve had wanted it to be more...There had been times that he _wished_ Rumlow would love him, that they could have something real...and now Rumlow _did.._ and Steve couldn't tell him _yes._

He broke the kiss with a gasp, abruptly ducking his chin, turning his face away despite Rumlow's attempts to draw his mouth back up to his own, back into the kiss that was so intoxicatingly firm, and _real."No-"_ He breathed, putting pressure on his hand, trying to back him away. "Brock- no- no, I'm sorry, please, I can't- I- I- don't- _I can't do this to him."_

Rumlow released Steve's hand and grabbed his jaw in both wide palms, pulling his face up, his gaze deceivingly desperate. "Steve- Look at me- _Look_ at me." He ordered firmly, locking his dark eyes with Steve's, seeing the conflicted pain reflected there. "He's _gone_ Steve. He's gone _. Barnes is dead,_ you're _allowed_ to move on- _you don't have to be alone."_

"I- I _can't-"_ Steve protested, full on squirming against him, trying to free himself from his firm grip.

"Yes you can-" Rumlow countered, tightening his hold. "Steve- come on, I love you. Don't do this- don't go- _look at me!"_  He ordered again, Steve's eyes instinctively snapping up to his. Rumlow's hands slid to his arms, grabbing his biceps and holding him in place, giving him a short jostle. "I love you. _Y'got that?_ I _love_ you."

Steve stared, his chest heaving, eyes wide with badly suppressed panic. He couldn't. He couldn't do this. He couldn't betray Bucky again, not after everything he'd already done to drag his memory through the dirt...Steve shook his head shortly, watching the horror dawn in Brock's eyes, before he abruptly wrenched away, pushing past him towards the door.

 _"No!"_ Rumlow broke out desperately, panic rising in his gut, because _this wasn't part of the plan._ Steve wasn't supposed to _leave him._ He had accounted for every situation he'd thought possible. He knew how to sweetly coax Steve back if he'd hurt him too badly and Steve tried to run from him. He knew how to manipulate the situation if Steve made a connection who tried to convince him that Rumlow was bad news. He could handle _anything,_ he'd planned for _everything,_ but it had never occurred to him that Steve would try and leave him because he refused to betray Bucky's memory. He lunged for Steve, grabbing his forearm in one last desperate attempt, barely hold back violence, and rage, because he had no collateral if he hurt Steve now. He was already half way out the door. If Rumlow lashed out at him, he'd never get him back. "Steve- Steve, hang on- don't go." He pleaded, but Steve tugged from his grip with the strength that Rumlow had always known he possessed, but had forgotten entirely that it could be used against _him._

"I'm sorry-" Steve said tightly, glancing back over his shoulder to where Rumlow stood, chest heaving, trying not to grab Steve and break him for leaving him. "I'm sorry- it's not your fault, I just- I _can't_ -" He breathed, trying to make Brock understand, trying to make him see that he _couldn't_ let Bucky go, he couldn't just _move on_ and forget him. _"I'm sorry."_

Steve turned his back to Rumlow, unable to look at him for a moment longer, feeling his heart tear with pain, because he couldn't betray Bucky- he refused- even though the cost was betraying Rumlow. He was still yelling after him, trying to bring him back as Steve straddled the seat of his motorcycle, and tore away from the curb, leaving him behind. He didn't _want_ to leave Rumlow, Rumlow had made sure he wouldn't. He had twisted and tweaked Steve's mind, nipping and tucking it the way he liked until Steve beleived that Rumlow was the only person in this whole fucked up world that understood him, that _wanted_ him; that he was the only one who could possibly love someone as filthy as him. Rumlow had thought for sure that that would be enough that Steve would never be able to leave him, but he'd underestimated one crucial detail.

_Just how much Steve Rogers was still in love with Bucky Barnes._

-.-

Steve rode until he didn't recognize the land around him. He rode until the sun had slipped past its high point, arcing slowly downward before he could force himself to turn around. _He didn't want to go back._ Leaving Rumlow hurt almost more than Steve could handle, believing someone really loved him, only to cut them out made him feel sick, and guilty, because he'd _craved_ Rumlow's love. He'd clung to the hope that he could someday love him, only to turn around and walk out on him the moment his wish had come true. _He'd used him_...He'd used him and it made Steve nauseous with guilt.

What kind of person was he? What kind of person was he that he pursued someone, lead them on, and then realized only at the moment when they loved him that he could never love them back? Was it kinder to leave Rumlow now than to have _pretended,_ until any semblance of a relationship they formed crumbled under the weight of Steve's deception? The guilt sat heavy in his stomach, Steve blaming himself for hurting Rumlow, until he forgot entirely everything Rumlow had done to hurt him.

_He almost went back._

He _almost_ turned down Rumlow's street when he finally reached Washington. He was already forming his apology in his mind, already asking Rumlow to take him back, even knowing that he'd be angry at him, evening knowing that his anger manifested itself in split lips and bruised and bloody skin. But he had to take him back- he- he love him- didn't he? He would take him back.

But one thought of Bucky had him driving past.

There was no guarantee that he would still try and beg Rumlow's forgiveness; that he wouldn't take the punches, and split lips, knowing that a soft kiss, and a few murmured apologies usually followed. But he needed time to think. He needed time to process whether or not he was ready to be alone again, whether or not he could handle not seeing Rumlow grinning at him from across a meeting room, tugging him around a corner to kiss his neck and mouth; whether or not he could manage without feeling like someone in this entire goddamn _universe_ cared about him...

But Steve wouldn't get that time to process, because when he finally reached his apartment after the sky had turned dark, he found Director Fury, _bleeding,_ in his living room.


	5. T+4 Hours from Director Assassination

_Director Fury was dead_ , shot through the chest by assassin Steve had glimpsed for just a moment. For the brief second that he had seen the killer Steve had taken in the long, dark, unwashed hair, the weaponized metal arm, and the tactical body armor and mask. But he only really _seen_ one thing. _His eyes_. The killer's eyes had been surrounded by smudged black camouflage, distorting his expression, melting his features in and out of shadow. But his storm blue irises pierced into Steve; clear and unobstructed. And something about the assassin's gaze is stilled Steve's heart in his chest, leaving him breathless, his mind teetering just on the edge of recognition.

And then he was gone, leaving Steve on the rooftop, the cold air whipping around him as he stared into the shadows through which he had disappeared.

-.-

Director Fury lay on the table in front of them, half covered by a white sheet, his eyes closed, chest utterly still. The director's hardened face was slack in death, bearing no trace of the authority and command it had carried in life. Steve felt his stomach turn with nausea. _He should have stopped this. He should have prevented it._ Guilt crashed over him in sickening waves, as he scrambled to think of _something_ he could have done. But recently, guilt become his default emotion, even when there was nothing he could've done. He should have grabbed Bucky's hand before he fell. He should have found some way to set the plane down without crashing so he wouldn't have to leave Peggy behind. He should have broken it off with Brock earlier before Brock got too attached, before Steve hurt him. _Or maybe he never should have broken it off in the first place._ He should have done something to prevent _this._ But now Director Fury dead, and Steve hadn't been able to stop it.

Natasha stood beside him, her head lowered, face ashen. Her soft, pink lips were parted ever so slightly, a crack showing in her usually impassive demeanor. Natasha wasn't afraid to show her emotions, but she used them like tools. She laughed, and smiled, and flirted to gain people's trust. She showed anger, and fear as a means to an end, but it was all a facade. She tried on personalities and personas like costumes, so deeply buried under masks that everyone, including Steve, and herself, had no idea who she _really_ was. But now that mask had cracked just _slightly,_ just enough to show sliver of who she might _actually_ be.

She stepped forward her movements slow, and controlled, her gaze fixed on the Director's body. Her hand slipped forward resting softly against his forehead, his body already cold under her touch. Natasha stood for just a moment, her eyes flickering closed, before she abruptly turned, and strode out of the room.

Steve startled at her abrupt exit, wheeling around after her, his chest tightening. _"Natasha!"_ He called, tossing one last guilty glance at Fury's body before following her out into the hospital hallway. She needed support, just like he did...and maybe it was optimistic, but a part of Steve hoped that maybe they could help each other. Something had always lingered between himself and Natasha. A _possibility._ A _maybe._ Steve had always wondered if, under other circumstances, they could have been friends, but when the woman whipped around to face him, her expression showed no acceptance of his support. She didn't want help. She wanted answers.

"Why was Fury in your apartment?" She demanded, her low, raspy alto resonating up his spine. Her gaze was cold and even, and Steve felt his skin prickle under the scrutiny.

He faltered, his words tangling, and catching in his throat. Steve was no stranger to lying. He had lied to six different enlistment offices in six different cities. He knew _how_ to lie but he needed time to prepare. If Steve was going to lie he needed to get his words straight, he needed to get in character, but Natasha's question put him on the spot, demanding an immediate answer, and Steve fumbled under the pressure. He offered a helpless shrug, dipping his head. "I don't know," he murmured, lifting his eyes meeting her gaze. But Natasha could dismantle a person's inner workings with one glance and Steve would have to be a _moron_ to think she didn't already know.

_"Cap-_ They want you back at S.H.I.E.L.D."

Rumlow's voice cut through Steve like a hot knife, searing through his mind, burning his senses raw. He _almost_ flinched, quickly turning to face him. Brock stood a few feet back his expression distant, and impersonal, his mouth sent into tight line that brought out the white of the scar through his upper lip. There was no trace of emotion apparent on his face. He didn't look hurt, or betrayed that Steve had left him so abruptly, but there was also no trace of the love he'd professed to him hours before. He looked collected, and detached, and Steve's heart stuttered in his chest. _He wasn't ready for this._ He couldn't face Rumlow, not yet. He needed time to evaluate what had happened, to comfort himself that he made the right choice, or let himself adjust to the idea of loving Rumlow, of letting him have him completely. He needed time, and time was one thing he didn't have.

"Yeah, gimme a sec." He replied tightly, dropping his eyes away from him, unable to look a moment longer. He just wanted to be alone, but Brock took a heavy step forward, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously.

"They want you _now."_ He pressed, his voice low, almost threatening, his eyes burning into him. Rumlow felt his rage boiling under his skin, and he bit back the urge to hurt Steve. The hallway was crowded with hospital staff, and S.H.I.E.L.D agents, and Rumlow knew at a gut level that he couldn't get away with _anything._ It killed him to be so close and not be able to touch Steve, either to kiss him and sooth away his fear, and guilt; win him back to him, or to _break_ him for thinking he was allowed to leave. He _hated_ not being allowed to make Steve pay for walking out on him, but he comforted himself in the knowledge that everything was going as planned. The Director was dead, project Insight was right on track, and HYDRA was thrashing its coiling limbs under the surface of the deep, waiting to rise.

Rumlow's low insistence grated across Steve's frayed nerves, and he fixed him with a tight stare, his eyes flickering with frustration and pain. _"Okay-"_ he said shortly, the word coming out as nearly _snap,_ and for once he did nothing to reign back the sharpness and his tone. He couldn't handle this right now, Rumlow _had_ to see that. He had too much he was trying to handle at once, and if Brock didn't already hate him for walking out on him, than he would have a little patience. Steve turned back to Natasha, but when his gaze met her's, she was already staring at him, an unsettling smirk lifting one corner of her mouth. It was the kind of smirk that Steve couldn't decipher, the kind that set the hair on the back of his neck on end, turning his stomach with unease.

"You're a terrible liar." She said simply her tone almost accusing, but her eyes flashed with something Steve couldn't recognize, before she turned on her heel and stalked away down the hall. Steve let out a half breath, watching her figure recede, before a weight settled in the pit of his stomach and he turned back to face Rumlow.

He was standing a few feet away, his hands resting on his belt, fully geared for trouble, and as Steve's eyes came to rest on him he lifted his gaze, dark and detached. Steve wet his mouth, his stomach twisting with indecision, but Brock was already moving.

He pulled away from the wall in one, smooth motion, his gaze darting up Steve's body. "Let's go." He murmured, gracing him with an impersonal nod.

Steve returned it shallowly, his eyes dropping away submissively on pure instinct. "Yeah," he breath trying to ignore the way his heart slammed against his rib cage, and his head throbbed with pain.

Rumlow drank in the sight of Steve, taking in the tension in his shoulders, and the stress tick that had developed by his right eye; the way his gaze darted around the hall like a trapped animal. He was falling apart at the seams. Frankly, Rumlow was amazed he was even _functional._ After months of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, he should have been teetering on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown. He should have been curled up somewhere, trembling and sobbing, _begging_ not to be left alone. He should have been utterly _ruined,_ and yet _somehow_ he was still functioning, following orders, trying to deal with the situation at hand. He was unsteady and his gaze was tormented, by some miracle Steve Rogers was still coping. He was obnoxiously resilient, but Rumlow still had to be delicate if he wanted to win Steve back to him. _He needed to get him alone._

Rumlow lifted his chin, raising his voice commandingly, and drawing the attention of his unit. "S.T.R.I.K.E. _Move out."_ He ordered, his tone ringing with authority and the men instantly obeyed. They emptied the hospital hallway, but Rumlow held Steve back, his forearm pressed against his broad chest; waiting. Once the hallway was quiet, his arm lowered slowly, his hand sliding around to his back, resting softly against the dip of his spine.

Steve flinched, his blood running cold. _He couldn't do this. Not right now. Please. Please. He couldn't take this._ The tension in his shoulders coiled tighter, his head dropping as he unconsciously angled shoulders away from him, but Brock was insistent. His fingers began tracing up and down the length of his spine, rubbing his back tenderly; gentle, and comforting. He eased close, moving into Steve's space despite his clear discomfort.

"Steve," he murmured in a low tone almost close enough to feel his breath on the back of his neck. "Stevie, _c'mon,"_ he prompted, his accent subtly thickening, the soothing drawl washing over Steve's brutalized mind like poisoned medicine. "C'mon...don't shut me out... _look at me..."_

Instinctively, he turned. Steve had been conditioned, from his mind, to deep in his bones, to obey when Rumlow ordered something of him. Even with his words spoken with such gentleness, and care, Steve _still_ responded as though it had been demanded of him with a slap. His raw gaze met Rumlow's, a heavy knot of anxiety, and grief forming in his gut. His expression was open, and pleading. "Brock, I can't do this right now." He said hurriedly, the words spilling from his lips before he could think to bite them back, and his cheeks suddenly paled. He drew away abruptly, his head dipping as though to ward of Rumlow's anger, body tensing for a blow.

But Brock didn't hit him.

He reached forward, his sturdy fingers curling around Steve's wrist, pulling him closer. His gaze darted down the hall, quickly ensuring that they were alone before he turned back to him. _"Hey-"_ he whispered, his hand moving up to the side of Steve's neck, steady cradling his jaw, and lifting his face up to his. "Just wanna talk to you, _that's all_ , just talk to me..."

Steve swallowed stiffly, his eyes laced with pain, a nerve spasming at the corner of his eye. He was a walking knot of anxiety. _"Please."_ He whispered simply, because he couldn't make this decision now. He had to report to S.H.I.E.L.D. He had to find the assassin who had killed the Director. He had to deal with the aftermath. He couldn't decide whether or not he could live without Rumlow. Not now.

Brock eased him closer, steadily holding his jaw, his dark, hooded eyes locked with Steve's. "I'm _not_ giving up on you." He said evenly, his tone low, and serious, because _I'm not giving up on you_ sounded kinder, less possessive then _I won't let you leave_. But, _I won't let you leave_ was closer to the truth. "Y'got that?" Rumlow pressed, one corner of his mouth turning up in an optimistic half-smirk. _"You're_ the one I want, okay? I love you, and I'm not giving up on you." His grip tightened firmly on his jaw, tugging him close to press his forehead against Steve's, his breath whispering across his lips, nose brushing against his.

Steve swallowed tightly, because Rumlow's gentle sincerity was almost harder to handle that his anger, and he found himself shifting with discomfort, his hands coming to rest on Rumlow's waist, half pushing him away. "Please-" he begged again, the stress making his head pound. "Brock- _I'm sorry_. I need to think about this, and I just havn't had time, I- I can't talk about this with you-"

"'Course you can," Rumlow countered, his body resting against Steve's, his proximity making the younger man squirm. He pressed himself, warm, and flush against his broad chest, his hips fitting neatly against Steve's, his mouth mere inches from his. " _Come on..."_ He coaxed softly. " _Talk to me_...talk to me about this, cause I'm not gonna loose you, _got it?"_ He smirked, his rough thumbs dragging across his cheekbones. "You're mine..." Brock murmured, his mouth grazing Steve's. _"You're mine_...I've got you...I've got you, baby..."

Steve shuddered as Brock closed the distance between their lips, his kiss soft, and addicting. As Brock's mouth pressed against his, something inside him crumbled under the weight of the stress and loneliness, and he let himself be kissed. He let Brock's hands side from his neck to his spine, moving to frame his narrow waist, his mouth working tenderly against his own. A whimper caught in his throat as Rumlow's tongue grazed against the seem of his lips before pushing softly inside, sliding wetly over his own. It was _almost_ nice. Steve could _almost_ believe that yesterday had been a mistake, that he could learn to love Rumlow...that they could be together as something more than just distractions... 

_I'm his._

The thought tried to settle in his mind, but it wouldn't rest. Brock had twisted his emotions so badly that he _tried_ to think that that's how it he should be. That he should be _Brock's._ That Brock should _own_ every part of him. But something deeper fought against it, something that Rumlow had choked and starved out to nearly nothing, but still stubbornly clung to life. That _something_ refused to let Steve accept that this was his life now, that he _belonged_ to Rumlow. It refused to let him accept that his only worth was as something for Brock to play with. It refused to accept that his only goal was being good enough, submissive enough, _obedient_ enough, so that Brock _might_ not throw him away. It nagged, and tugged at Steve's mind, whispering to him that this was _wrong,_ that Rumlow had only ever hurt him, but it had grown weak under Rumlow's manipulation, now so faint that Steve could barely hear it at all.

Steve broke the kiss with a soft gasp, his air leaving him in a ragged huff as he drew back just a half step. "Brock." He pressed insistently, grabbing the front of his vest to physically stop him from dragging him back in. Rumlow froze, his gaze dropping from Steve's face, to the hand gripping his vest, before darting back up, his brow drawing. And Steve felt his heart stutter in his chest.

Rumlow's hand slid up, curling around Steve's and jerking it free from his vest before he dragged him in, suddenly changing tactic. He was being too nice, and Steve was drifting. He needed a firm hand, like a dog, and Brock was fed up with coddling him. His hardened hand curled around Steve's, the thin bones grinding together under the skin, Steve's face paling at his sudden anger. "You're _really_ doing this?" He demanded, dragging him close, his jaw locked, eyes flashing with suppressed violence. "After _everything_ I did for for you you're _really_ gonna just _leave me?"_

_"No-"_ Steve said hurriedly, trying to pull his face away from Rumlow's, fear burning through his veins. "no- I- _I don't know._ Brock. _I. don't. know._ I just need time to think- _please-"_

"You don't need time to _think."_ Rumlow snapped, the words coming out like a fact, like Steve was stupid for not seeing the obvious. "You got spooked. You're feeling guilty about being in a relationship with me when the guy you feel like you're cheating on has been dead for almost eighty years. Every other reason you're coming up with is just an excuse to justify _that."_ He spat, and watched with satisfaction as Steve recoiled, but he kept a firm hold on his hand, nearly crushing it in his grip. He'd unbalanced Steve, now he just had to tip in over the edge. Rumlow's grip abruptly eased, his voice lowering, not _soft,_ but no longer vicious, and attacking either. "Y'think Barnes would _want_ you to be alone the rest of your goddamn life?" He demanded quietly, his tone low as he drew him back in, almost close enough to kiss. "Y'think if you _finally_ found someone in this fucking _century_ who gives a shit about you that he wouldn't _want_ you to be happy?" _Subtle, but stinging._ Now more than ever, he needed Steve to think that Rumlow was the only one who cared about him. "You said it yourself..." He breathed, his forehead grazing Steve's. "He would have been happy for you if you'd found someone back then...why not now? He's _gone_ Steve...Barnes is _dead._ But he wouldn't have wanted to drag you under with him..."

Steve stared at him, shaken to his core, his stomach turning so violently he was afraid he might hurl. His head was spinning, eyes burning, Rumlow's words echoing in his head. _Was he right?_ _Would Bucky want this?_ Bucky had died so that Steve could live...and Rumlow _loved_ him... _he said he loved him_...was he cheapening Bucky's sacrifice by clinging to his ghost? He swallowed stiffly, feeling sick, Rumlow's breath hot on his face. His gaze was dark, and intense, searing into Steve, until the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. _He didn't know._  

"We...we need to leave..." He breathed, instead of an answer, knowing it wasn't what Rumlow wanted to hear. He would probably be angry at him for dodging the question. "The team's gonna be looking for us..."

Rumlow's expression spasmed with rage, but he buried the emotion, his hand sliding to the back of Steve's neck. _"Right."_ He murmured, a little irritation slipping into his tone, but nothing more. He drew Steve against him, his lips brushing against his in a soft kiss before he pulled back just an inch, whispering in the intimate space between them. "We're gonna straighten this out, _okay?_ I want you to come back to my place tonight and we'll talk...we'll smooth _everything_ out, and things can get back to the way they were, alright?" He pressed, stroking over his skin, nuzzling close, feeling Steve's breath hitch in his chest.

Giving in, Steve jerked a tiny nod, and Bock's lips turned into a smile against his mouth. _"Good..."_ He whispered praisingly, and captured Steve's mouth in a tender kiss. " _Good_...I love you...don't forget that, alright, Cap? _I love you..."_

Steve's gut tightened with indecision, but he managed another short nod, breaking the kiss with a shuddering exhale. A few hours to think was better than no time at all. In a few hours, he'd clock out. In a few hours he's go back to Brock's house and they'd talk...and Steve would have to decide. But until then, he could bury himself in his work, focus on finding who killed the Fury. _Until then, he could forget._

Rumlow drew back, his mouth tingling from being pressed against Steve's soft, pink lips, and he granted him a lopsided smirk, tugging him close to press one more stubbly kiss to the corner of his mouth. And with that, Rumlow reassumed his detached professionalism, and the would-be affection faded from his expression. He turned sharply, and strode off down the hallway, Steve following in his wake, a weight of guilt like lead forming in the pit of his stomach.

-.-

Steve stepped out of Alexander Pierce's office, the back of his neck prickling. If he'd wanted a distraction, he'd gotten it. The Alpha Level Director's words burned through his mind, Steve's lips twitching as he repeated them to himself. They left a foul taste in his mouth, and something deep in his gut warned him that trouble was coming for him, and _fast._ Pierce's last words to him had been a clear warning. _Stay out of my way, or else._

-.-

Rumlow slipped through the back door to Pierce's office almost as Steve was exiting, hovering in the shadows of the room until the Director acknowledged his presence. Pierce turned, his normally soft, benevolent face drawn into a scowl, and his gaze flickered up to him before he turned away again.

Rumlow didn't like the way he looked at him. _Like shit on the bottom on his shoe._

"The Captain's proving to be a bigger obstacle than I accounted for." The Director said, his hands clasped behind his back, pacing as though he were addressing an assembly rather than a lone soldier. Rumlow had thought from the beginning that he was underestimating Steve. He would have _loved_ to know what he'd said or done that had finally tipped Pierce over the edge and into action. "He'll need to be dealt with." _No shit_. "I want you and you're team to kill him immediately."

Rumlow almost startled, feeling a thrill run up his spine, but whether it was a thrill of excitement, or horror, he couldn't tell. For a brief moment, Brock wondered with a twist of terror if he'd gotten himself in too deep with Rogers, if the prickle that had run up his spine was _reluctance._ But he quickly rationalized the feeling. He had no love for Steve. The mixed emotion stemmed from being hesitant to loose his favorite toy. He would miss playing with Roger's head; fucking him over, metaphorically _and_ literally. At least he'd finally be able to see the look on his face when he realized he'd been used. It would _almost_ make up for not being able to play with him anymore.

Rumlow lifted his chin, his shoulders squaring. "Yes sir." He responded, his tone solid, and even. The job would be finished. One man against the entire S.T.R.I.K.E team...it'd be a fair fight.

-.-

Steve stepped into the glass elevator overlooking the lower complex of the Triskelion, his heart rate slowly settling. Since his conversation with Pierce, Steve had felt like an exposed nerve, hyper alert, startling at every sound or movement. But as the door began to slid closed behind him, he felt the paranoia begin to settle, but he didn't dismiss it completely.

His eyes fell to the voice activated control panel. "Operations control." He instructed, his tone flat. The panel confirmed the direction, but before the door could full close, a hand slid between the elevator door and the frame, stopping it dead. Steve looked up, and felt a tug in the pit of his stomach.

_Rumlow._

He stepped into the elevator, flanked by two men from the S.T.R.I.K.E team, his head ducked, dark eyes lowered to the ground. He didn't even seem to notice him. "Forensics." Rumlow intoned towards the panel, the box chiming an automated _'confirmed'_ before his eyes flickered up, meeting briefly with Steve's. Steve felt a crackle of electricity run up his spine, and he dropped his gaze away. _Professional._ They were in a professional environment, and as far as anyone needed to know, he and Brock were just friends. _If that._ They were detached co-workers at best.

"Cap." Rumlow greeted with a nod, his eyes briefly dragging up Steve's body. He half-wished he could have had just ten minutes alone with him before taking him out, one more opportunity to get his hands on Steve, to feel him trembling against him in total submission. But it wasn't going to happen. The elevator was the opportune place to eliminate him, and the doors were already closed. The rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E team would join them soon. Rumlow only hoped that if he _had_ to share in killing Steve, that he got to be the one to land the final shot. He wanted to haul Steve up by the front of his suit, after he'd been beaten, and broken, and look him in the eyes before he put a bullet through that big, trusting heart of his. If that were to be taken from him, _he wouldn't be happy._

Steve glanced up, keeping his movements casual as he returned the distant nod. "Rumlow..." He murmured.

Rumlow's gut twisted as the silence settled over them, not satisfied. Steve didn't want to talk to him right now. He wanted to be alone to think, but Rumlow didn't give a damn about what Steve wanted. He was going to talk even if he had to corner him into it. "Evidence response found some fibers on the roof they want us to see. You want me to get the tack team ready?"

"No, let's wait and see what it is first."

The answer was short and, again, unsatisfactory, and Rumlow felt his jaw lock with irritation. "Right." He gritted out, glancing away once more. He _hated_ being ignored.

At Rumlow's tight response, Steve felt a tug of guilt deep in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he was being too hard...he wanted distance, some time to think, and consider whether or not he could ever _really_ move past Bucky, _love Rumlow._..but that didn't mean Rumlow had done anything to deserve him being so cold. Steve tried focus on easing his demeanor, on relaxing, and showing Brock that he wasn't angry at him, but the paranoia that had begun to settle suddenly flared up in his chest. One of the two men who had entered the elevator with Rumlow had his hand resting in his gun. Steve's stomach turned, the hair standing upright on the back of his neck. _That wasn't right...why would he be holding his gun?_

Steve barely managed to suppress a start of alarm as the elevator doors slid open, his anxiety spiking, making his head throb, and setting his heart slaming against his ribs. Four more men entered the elevator. Steve tried to sooth his alarm. These were familiar faces. They were all members of the S.T.R.I.K.E team. He _knew_ them. They we comrades. Coworkers. There was no reason to be afraid.

Rumlow glanced briefly over at Steve, seeing his gaze snapping around the small space like a trapped animal. He was on edge. Rumlow needed to get his mind off the men. He needed to distract him, and nothing was occupying Steve's thoughts more than the death of the Director. Brock eased over just a half step, his face angling back towards him. _"Hey,"_ he murmured softly, drawing Steve's attention. "Sorry about what happened with Fury...messed up what happened to him..."

Steve glanced over, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of Rumlow's soft, low voice, and against his better judgment, he let his anxiety be soothed. "Thank you." He replied, trying to meet Brock's gaze, but his eyes had already dropped away. Steve didn't hold it against him. Comfort wasn't in Brock's nature, and it meant more to Steve than he could express that he was even willing to _try._ Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he'd been panicked yesterday, and had made a bad decision...he didn't want to not have Brock as a part of his life... _he needed him._..he was the only one who cared about him...

And then the elevators doors opened. Another three S.T.R.I.K.E entered the already cramped space, and Steve's mind pitched into red alert.

They were drawn too close, their energy _reeked_ of tension, and a kind of vicious anticipation. Sweat beaded on the back of one man's neck, another clutched the handle of his brief case in a white knuckles grip.

_This was was wrong._

_These men were dangerous._

_He had to warn Rumlow._

Steve's eyes snapped up to him, but his back was turned, his posture casual, and relaxed. _He didn't know._ He couldn't see the men's intentions like Steve could. Maybe his nerves were heightened after his conversation with Pierce, but the paranoia might have just save his life. These men were going to come after him, and knowing it ahead of time gave him even a few seconds extra to prepare.

_But he didn't want Brock to get caught in the middle of it._

He wanted to grab his shoulder, meet his gaze, casually suggest he get off a stop early, make some snarky quip about taking the stairs being good for a man his age. He wanted Rumlow to snort derisively, and snap back some equally teasing jab before slipping through the doors as they closed. _Safe. Then_ Steve could worry about himself. But he _couldn't._ Steve couldn't warn Rumlow without tipping his hand to the rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E team. The best he could hope for, was that his reflexes were quick enough to keep him from getting killed; that Steve was good enough to get _both_ of them out of this alive. He _couldn't_ loose Rumlow. He was the only thing he had.

The doors shuddered closed with bitting finality, and Steve felt his body quivering with tension, but he smoothed it over; calm, and collected. His tongue slid out, wetting his lips, as he caught his breath, his gaze dropping to the floor before lifting. He squared his shoulders, staring evenly ahead. "Before we get started-" Steve said, addressing the men in the elevator, silently prying that the words gave Brock even _one_ extra second to realize what was going on. _"Does anyone want to get out?"_

The stillness held for one second longer, before _shattering._ A man wheeled around, jabbing one of the electrified batons at him, and Steve lurched back, suddenly surrounded on all sides. Men grabbed at him, dragging him backwards, forcing him against the wall. A hand slammed against the emergency stop button on the com, and the elevator jolted, Steve suddenly unbalanced. The handle detached from the briefcase one of the S.T.R.I.K.E team members had been clutching so tightly with a menacing _click,_ a second ringing in his ears, and the realization of their purpose hit Steve like a bucket of lead. _Magnetized cuffs._ They were going to cuff him to the wall, and kill him. And almost worse was -in the panic- he'd lost Rumlow.

He was pressed in against the wall by several men, and he jerked as cold metal touched his wrists, fighting against his assailants until he freed his hand. But a second later, the opposite cuff snapped viciously around his wrist and dragged his hand to the metal plate above his head. His mind was churning, trying to calculate each hit before it landed, twisting, and jerking to deflect blows, his heart in his throat. Suddenly, he didn't see men he'd trusted. Just threats. They weren't who he thought they were, and anything he remembered about them no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered, was getting out alive; him, and-

_Rumlow._

The dark haired man pushed through the packed mass of soldiers, and for a moment, Steve felt a rush of relief, before his blood suddenly ran cold. Rumlow's expression was twisted with violence, a taser gripped in both fists, and with a lunge, the right baton swung towards him in a brutal arc. Steve deflected the blow, his gaze snapping up, catching briefly on Rumlow's and seeing only black focus, and his stomach turned with nausea.

_God no. Anyone but him._

But he didn't have time to process. The baton whipped forward and _cracked_ against his upper spine, electricity crackling through him, shorting out his mind, breaking his focus. _Why him? Why Rumlow?_ Steve jerked spasmodically under the surge of voltage running through his body and suddenly cracked one elbow back, feeling it connect solidly with his cheekbone, Rumlow's grunt of pain too loud in his ear. And then he lost track of him, rushed by two more men. But he was fighting in a blur, his body moving on instinct alone. His mind was breaking while his body fought for the right to live. He had said he couldn't handle one more thing. He hadn't meant it as a challenge.

_He couldn't do this._

_He wanted to stop fighting._

_He wanted to die._

The two S.T.R.I.K.E members hit the ground, thumping over the unconscious bodies that already littered the elevator floor. Without so much as thinking about it, Steve braced his feet against the side of the elevator, and _pushed._ The magnetic field holding the cuff to the wall strained, the metal biting into his wrist. His muscles quivered with effort as the cuff slowly pulled, before detailing completely, dropping Steve heavily to the ground. He stumbled, his heel catching on a limp arm before he regained his balance, gasping for air. And suddenly, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Rumlow stumbled to his feet, his ears ringing, pain blossoming across his cheekbone from where Steve's elbow had cracked into him. The blow had dropped him to the floor, momentarily stunned, his head spinning. The _thump_ of the last S.T.R.I.K.E team member hitting the floor had shaken him from his daze, he dragged himself up, _murder_ in his gaze. Steve's chest was heaving, his eyes animalistic, and desperate. This guy was operating on pure adrenaline and Rumlow could tell. He was quivering, his hands clenched at his sides, and as their eyes met, something inside Steve shattered. _The truth had finally sunk in_.

Nausea hit Steve in a wave, bile rising in his throat as he stared at Rumlow. His stance was wide, and cautious, one baton held out in front of him, chest rising and falling raggedly, but his mouth was curled into a rugged smirk. The smirk had been what had gotten him out of bed most mornings. When he'd wanted to block out the world, and forget everything, knowing he could see Rumlow had been enough to make him move, make him hang on for one more day. He remembered how that smirk had felt against his mouth.

" _Whoa big guy-"_ Rumlow panted, his lips turning up crookedly, eyes glinting at though this was just another one of their harmless little games, the games that left Steve sobbing, and trembling with pain. Just another scene that Steve had _definitely_ consented to, even if Rumlow had to convince him of it after the fact. He could see the hurt beginning to dawn in Steve's eyes, his face going ashen, as horror twisted in heavy coils in his gut, his chest heaving as he fought back the nausea. He could see the realization in his expression, the realization that he'd been tricked, betrayed; _used._

Steve wanted to sob.

He could almost feel Rumlow's hands on his body, gripping so hard he left bruises, before stroking him so tenderly that he forgot the pain. He could hear his voice in his ear, whispering biting, filthy, _demeaning_ words as he kissed and bit at his neck, his hips rolling against him. _I love you. Y'got that? I love you._ The words turned to poison in his veins, burning him from the inside out, puncturing his heart like a rusty knife, the vicious little smirk on Rumlow's sinful mouth twisting the blade.

_He'd given him so much._ And Rumlow had just taken, _more and more,_ bleeding him dry, because it wasn't enough to take Steve sexually. He had to have _everything._ He had to have waking up next to Steve. He had to have making him breakfast, and kissing him against the kitchen counter. He had to have _owning_ him on his most intimate level; he had to have his love, and Steve had given it to him. And now Rumlow was going to take his _life_ too.

_And Steve was tempted to let him._

Rumlow's tongue slid across his lips, wetting his mouth as the smirk cracked into an easy grin. "I just want you to know Cap-" he breathed, his gaze dragging up his body invasively, just to watch him shudder. "It's not personal-" the last word morphed into a snarl as Rumlow lunged, Steve too frozen in utter horror to dodge, and the electrified baton _jabbed_ into his gut. He jerked back but Rumlow chased the contact, forcing the rod deeper.

Steve's jaw locked, a scream forcing between his clenched teeth, and he suddenly hauled back, his fist connecting with Rumlow's cheekbone. He felt the bones _crunch,_ Brock's head snapping back from the force and the rod pulled away, leaving a smoking singe across the abdomen of Steve's suit. His skin was hot underneath, burning with energy and pain, his nerves crackling. But the relief was short lived. Rumlow lurched forward, and the sparking, snapping tip of the weapon suddenly stabbed back into his body, pressing in, burning almost through the heavy, protective material of the suit.

Another scream wrenched from Steve's lips, his vision darkening around the edges, head spinning. He could smell burning flesh, knowing that his body couldn't take the heavy charge for much longer. He was going to black out, and when he did, Rumlow would kill him. _Or worse,_ he wait for him to come too, wait for him to be _just_ conscious enough to look him in the eye, to hiss some cruel jeer before putting a bullet in his head. He'd taken _everything_ from him, even things he hadn't wanted to give, but it wasn't enough. He needed to kill him too.

And suddenly Steve _snapped._

His life was the only thing he had that Rumlow _hadn't_ taken, and if he wanted it, he was going to have to _fight_ for it.

He _pushed_ into the taser, unexpectedly forcing into Rumlow's space, crashing his fist into his already shattered cheekbone. The man lurched back with a muted growl of pain, but stopping the attack wasn't enough. Steve grabbed him by the front of his vest, dragging him forward and, with all his strength, _hurled_ him into the ceiling of the elevator.

Rumlow hit, the ceiling crushing inward with backbreaking force, light bulbs shattering and sparking. The crushed in edges dragged at his body as it dislodged, holding him for a half breath before he dropped, hitting the ground with a sickening _crunch._

Steve stood over the pile of unconscious bodies, his chest heaving, eyes fixed on Rumlow's crumpled form. He lay at his feet, utterly still, his face slack, and unresponsive. A part of Steve wanted to sob. A part of him wanted to kill Rumlow. _It's not personal._ His stomach turned sickly, almost _feeling_ his mouth tracing over every inch of his body, touching, and stroking deep inside of him. _How was that not personal?_ How could it _not_ be personal when Rumlow had used him for _months,_ hurting him, before coaxing him along so sweetly he forgot? When he'd made him doubt his own senses, his own _memory,_ until he thought he was going insane...when he assumed Steve's consent, even when he told him no. When he tore from Steve something he had promised would belong to _just_ Bucky, and no one else... "It kinda _feels_ personal..." He gritted, his voice breaking off to a rasp, body trembling as he stared down at the man who'd used him beyond his limits, who hurt, and raped him, and still had the sadism to try and make Steve _love_ him. He wanted to kill him.

But time was Steve's enemy.

He didn't have _time_ to make a decision. He didn't have time to make Rumlow pay for everything he did to him, _took_ from him. S.H.I.E.L.D was not what Steve had been lead to believe, and now, everyone he'd trusted was trying to have him killed. _He had to leave._ It was Brock, or him.

Steve lingered a half second longer, staring down at Brock, still breathing, still poisoning the world with his mere existence, and knew he could do nothing. He was _going_ to get away with everything he'd done. He was _going_ to come back. He was _going_ to hurt him again, and there was nothing Steve could do about it. All he could do was hang on to the one thing Rumlow hadn't been able to take away from him.

Steve kicked his shield up off the ground, the magnets in the handles clamping firmly to their twins in the forearm of his suit, as he began searching for his escape from S.H.I.E.L.D., Rumlow, and _everything_ he'd built in his new life.

But regardless of everything, even if he had _nothing_ else, he was _still_ alive. And as long as he stayed that way, Rumlow hadn't won.


	6. Unmarked Highway 1500 Hours

For the past six hours, Steve had been functioning on pure adrenaline and shock. He had been running too fast, and too hard to stop and think; to let the realization settle in his bones that everything he had known was gone. Again. Everything he'd gradually learned to accept about his new life had not only been stripped from him, but in a backwards, twisted sense, was coming after him, determined to drag him under and tear his still beating heart from his chest. His whole world had turned inside out, leaving only one, uncertain light in the blackness.

_Natasha._

Rumlow had been his one support, and had turned on him like a rabid dog. On the flip side, Natasha had been untrustworthy, and unstable. Now, she was his _only_ stability. Whether or not his weak, broken trust was misplaced was something only time would show, but he needed _something. Anything._ And Natasha was all that was left.

Now, he sat in the driver's seat of a borrowed vehicle that would never be returned, and felt the hopelessness dragging at his limbs, pulling him under; drowning him. Natasha sat beside him in the passenger's seat, but the silence hung between them like a fog. They had spoken earlier, Natasha jabbing lightly about his first kiss since 1945, but she must have been able to tell that his heart hadn't been in the conversation. After a while, she'd let him slip into silence. The adrenaline was fading, leaving pure exhaustion in its wake, and Steve dragged in a ragged breath, his body aching for rest. He so _desperately_ needed rest...if for no other reason than to block out the sound of Rumlow's voice echoing in his head, whispering pet names, and biting insults, kissing down his spine... _touching him._ A shudder ran up Steve's back and shoulders, his stomach tugging, but the nausea had faded as exhaustion overcame his body.

Natasha caught sight of the shudder at the edge of her vision, and her deep, hazel eyes drifted over, watching him curiously. The more tired Steve became, the closer his thoughts drifted to the surface. She could see them swimming just behind his eyes, thoughts and emotions tangling, and knotting together, tightening around him, forming a noose that choked the life from his battered body. Steve had carried a weight inside him from the first day they had met, but Natasha had never seen it dragging him so close to the ground before. The weight he bore on his back was finally growing to be too much, and it was breaking him. It was crushing him under its weight, and he wasn't going to be able to hold up under it for very much longer.

"Want me to drive?"

Natasha's words broke through the silence, jerking Steve unexpectedly back from the edge. He'd been teetering too close, but his companion's voice snapped his mind clear. He glanced over quickly, seeing her watching him, her gaze searching. She was drinking him in, reading him, and Steve turned his eyes suddenly back to the road. "I'm fine." He replied absently, consciously loosening his grip on the wheel. His fingers were beginning to ache, and the blood rushed back to his whitened knuckles.

Nat's slim hand reached across his front, and Steve startled, flinching back like a head shy animal; but she didn't so much as graze him, her fingers clicking down the turn signal. "Pull off." She instructed. "We're never gonna reach Jersey if you pass out at the wheel."

Steve's tongue slid out to wet his lips, and he glanced back at the sparse line of traffic, before slowly easing over onto the berm. He wouldn't fight her on this. She was probably right to begin with. If he could sit in the passenger's seat and close his eyes _, just maybe_ , _if_ he let himself, he could sleep. He could forget. Gravel crunched heavily under the tires, grinding away to nothing as Steve put the car in park and clicked the buckle across his lap open. "Alright, you win." He said, his tone flat; _dead._ "Take the wheel."

Natasha watched as Steve slipped out of the car, circling around, flinching as a truck roared past. He was quivering with tension. He was strung out, stretched further than he was capable, and he was recoiling from _everything._ Steve was trying his hardest to bury it, but the emotion that churned just under his skin, was undoubtably _fear._ It wasn't a specific fear, but an active one, a fear that managed to apply to _everything,_ make _everything_ look like a threat. She remembered how he'd flinched when she'd reached past him. Steve was afraid of _her_ too...or maybe he was just afraid of being touched.

As Steve opened the passengers side door, Natasha slipped nimbly over the space between the seats, swinging her legs over the clutter and settling into the driver's seat, her hands coming to rest on the wheel. Steve slipped in, his head lowered, eyes unseeing. His face was drawn with exhausted grief. Once he was settled, Natasha merged back onto the highway, the asphalt smooth under the tires. The car glided along, carrying them further from anything familiar, towards _God knows_ what. But the flash drive that Fury had pressed on Steve in his dying moments _had_ to mean something. It might be information. It might be a weapon. A tool. Whatever it was, it may be their only hope of turning the tide against HYDRA.

"Steve,"

Steve lifted his head, turning to glance over at her.

Natasha's gaze flickered between Steve and the road, and for a moment, she was silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. She seemed to consider her words, thinking carefully before she spoke. "Once this step is done, once we find out what's at the location on the drive... Where do we go?" She knew there could be no solid answer. She knew that there was no guarantees for them, not anymore. But she couldn't accept that they had _no_ option for safety. In truth, Natasha wondered more for Steve's sake then her own. She could _see_ how badly he needed to rest, and if they were the only two against an immeasurable force, Steve needed to be in top form. As it was, he was barely even conscious. Natasha tried to hold to her disconnected air. She needed Steve operating at full capacity, he was useless if he was battered half to death and falling asleep on his feet. She wasn't _worried_ about him. Of course not. She...she needed his strength on her side. She wasn't _worried._

Steve dragged in a hesitant breath, forcing himself to focus, to think, for even a few moments more. Everything hurt. He buffered, trying to collect his thoughts even when his mind kept dragging him, clawing, and screaming, back into the past. _He had to think._ Steve's tongue slid out to wet his lips, before he glanced briefly over to his companion, unease twisting in the pit of his stomach. "I know a safe place. _I think..."_

Natasha's eyebrow arched, her lips tightening and she tossed him a sidelong glance out of the corner of her eye. "You think you know a safe place, or the place you're thinking of is safe but you're not sure?" She pressed, hitting the gas hard enough to make Steve jump, roaring past the car in front of them before slipping seamlessly back into the lane and adjusting the review mirror.

"I-" Steve started, faltering half from the sudden lurch in speed, half from a deeply rooted uncertainty that clawed in his gut, making his heart skip a beat. But he swallowed it back, trying to shake Rumlow's voice from his head. "I'm _pretty sure_ its safe."

"Is _pretty sure_ really our best option?"

Steve drew a breath, before exhaling, low, and steady, steeling his nerves. "Right now, its our _only_ option."

-.-

_He sounds like a fame hound._

_All I'm sayin' is that some fellas take a look at you, and all they see is a chance to get a little attention by hanging around. Fame by association._

_I know you like to see the good in people, but y'can't just let them use you either. I mean come on. You think he really sees you? Or just Captain America?_

"Steve?"

Steve jerked, his eyes snapping open as he rolled abruptly to the ground, his feet striking the floor with a _thump._  He was up before he'd even registered who was speaking to him, shoulders tense, eyes flashing with panic.

 _"Whoa-_ whoa... Easy man, s'just me." Sam stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one hand held out, palm open; calming. A dinner plate was balanced on the flat of his opposite hand, the smell of hot food registering dimly to Steve's senses. He blinked, stepping back a pace as heat flooded his cheeks. The light blanket that he'd drawn over himself as he tried to sleep was now coiled around his ankles, and Steve dragged in a steadying breath, trying to control the panicked racing of his heart. Suddenly ashamed of his reaction, Steve stepped out of the blanket, and sunk back to the mattress, his head dipping away with embarrassment.

"Yeah-" he breathed, trying to chase Rumlow's voice from his head. "Yeah- yeah, sorry. Come on in." Steve murmured, gesturing Sam away from the doorway.

He'd already done more for he and Natasha than Steve could have _ever_ asked of him. Just letting two known fugitives through his door was more than Steve could have hoped for. But Sam had not only brought them in, but offered them his home, rest, and relative safety. He'd volunteered his help even though he'd been _out,_ even though he had no obligation to walk back into a situation that may have gotten him killed. Sam had positioned himself firmly at Steve's right side, opposite Natasha, who's integrity Steve _finally_ trusted, and had refused to budge. He was in now, and he would do nothing less than everything in his power to set right what had gone wrong.

_So why did Brock's words keep spinning in his head?_

At the invitation, Sam approached, dropping down on the mattress beside him, and extending the warm plate with a little quirk of a smile. "I think I'm gonna spare asking you how long its been since you've eaten." He smirked, feeling the weight of the dish pass from his hand.

Steve received it with a low exhale, picking up the fork that rested on the edge of the plate. _"God..."_ He murmured under his breath, spearing a piece of meat that he couldn't even be bothered to ask what it was. "Lunch- yesterday? _Breakfast maybe?"_ He couldn't remember. He'd had nothing today. Had he eaten anything after breakfast with-

Steve faltered, the food catching in his throat before he swallowed stiffly, his stomach tightening. Suddenly he remembered why he hadn't eaten anything. He'd been too distracted yesterday, too conflicted over whether or not he'd made the right decision by leaving Rumlow to even _think_ about his stomach. By the time he had settled enough to stomach food, he'd found Fury, dying, in his apartment. _And then today._..Steve's gut clenched sickly. He couldn't have eaten today if he _wanted_ too. Even if he hadn't been running from S.H.I.E.L.D., crossing states to find information that could work either for, or against them, and escaping the still burning, bombed out shell of an underground bunker, he _couldn't_ have. His mind kept circling back to Rumlow, to what he did to him, _took_ from him. To what he made him do, and to all the things Steve had done willingly. _God..._ Steve had done _so much_ that was going to haunt him until the day he died. He remembered making himself submissive to Rumlow because he liked to imagine that Rumlow's dominance translated to care. He remembered dropping to his knees, tasting Brock's come on his lips as he whimpered, low, and needy in the back of his throat. He remembered begging for his touch, craning for his kiss. He remembered wanting him, _almost_ loving him; he remembered making himself believe that he could be happy with him. _He'd done so much..._

_He was so dirty..._

_Filthy._

_Used._

The fork dipped against the edge of the plate, clinking softly against the glass. Steve's expression had gone slack, eyes unfocused, and seared with hurt, and Sam felt his chest tightening with worry, and alarm. He'd seen it from the moment Steve had walked in that he was carrying some serious baggage, but it was _crippling_ him, and Steve was holding it inside, letting it hurt him worse.

"Steve." Sam murmured gently, wanting to bring him out of it without spooking him. Steve's gaze was fixed wide with horror, and guilt, the color drained from his cheeks. _"Steve."_ Sam pressed again, this time his tone growing more firm, and he eased forward, his eyes fixed on him intently.

Steve's fixed stare broke, and he gaze snapped to Sam, eyes laced with pain, but he didn't look afraid. _Good._ "Sorry." Steve breathed, his voice coming out as a tight whisper, as he apologetically laid the plate aside, trying to force a little smile. "Sorry- I- I'm a little too tense to eat. But thank you... _really_."

Sam didn't react immediately. His gaze dropped to the nearly untouched plate, his tongue sliding out to cautiously wet his full lips, weighting his words with care. He raised his dark brown eyes, locking them steadily with Steve's. This guy needed help.  _Desperately._ "You look a little more than just _tense_ to me." He said softly, his tone gentle enough not to be accusing, but it was also undeniably clear. He _saw_ Steve. He saw that he was struggling, and he wanted to help. "Hey man- Listen, I get that this whole situation has gone to shit. S.H.I.E.L.D. HYDRA. It's a _mess,_ but...if you're hanging on to something else, something _closer..._ let me help. Please."

Steve's gaze snapped up, eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate relief, before he quickly buried it. He didn't need to put this on Sam. He hardly knew him. No one deserves to have his emotional crap dumped on them...So he shut away the short-lived spark of hope that _someone_ could understand, and buried it, determined not to be a burden. "I'm just really tired, Sam." Steve murmured, trying to smile appreciatively, but it twisted his face like a grimace of pain, his eyes reflecting his hurt like a broken mirror.

"Yeah, I'm sure you are." Sam replied, smiling warmly. He had to treat Steve with extreme care. He couldn't _make_ him talk. All he could do was encourage him, and _hope_ he would trust him enough to open up. "Get some rest Steve." Sam advised lifting the abandoned plate off of the covers, still smiling patiently as he stood, and turned back towards the door.

Steve watched him go, something building in his gut, a mounting panic. _Desperation._

_"Wait-"_

The single word broke from Steve's lips before he could stop it, his heart jolting in his chest, his eyes going wide with horror. But Sam didn't react with an ugly glare, and a derisive sneer. He didn't smirk cruelly, drawling out a ' _What? You couldn't stand to be left alone? God what a fucking bitch.'_  He simply glanced back at him, his eyes warm, expression undemanding. Steve swallowed back the knot in his throat, his heart rate elevating, hitting against his ribcage. But he had his attention now. He'd committed. He needed to follow it through.

"Uh- I just- I-" Steve faltered, his words tangling helplessly, his anxiety pitching as Sam walked easily back over, sinking down beside him once more. His weight on the mattress beside him was solid, and real, but Steve couldn't ground himself. He _wanted_ to talk to him. He _wanted_ to tell him, desperate for _someone_ to assure him that he was right, because a terrifying, twisted part of Steve was already trying to make him doubt what had happened. Rumlow had tangled his mind so thoroughly that only _hours_ after he had literally tried to kill him, Steve felt his conviction slipping. He felt himself trying to find alternate reasons for what had happened, that it was a trick, a bluff, even a sadistic joke, _anything_ but Rumlow _actually_ trying to kill him. And that rationalization terrified Steve.

_Because he was afraid he'd go back._

He _had_ to know. He _had_ to know he was right. _He had to tell someone._

Steve wet mouth, anxiety pitching in his gut, making him feel sick. He _wanted_ to trust Sam. _God_ he want to trust him. But the last time he trusted someone it had only gotten him hurt. His heart was battered almost beyond repair and Steve didn't know if it could take one more wound. But he didn't know if it could take the isolation any longer either. _He needed to choose_. Trust Sam, and risk a betrayal that might break him completely, or let all the pain fester inside him, unseen, and untouched, until it seeped through him like poison, and destroyed him from the inside out.

Sam waited patiently, watching Steve tense with indecision. He didn't know what this guy was carrying on his chest, but whatever it was, it was _bad._ He could see the trauma in his eyes, they way he flinched when he was startled, or even when someone just passed a little too close. He could see it in the way his head dropped away when someone spoke to him, his body coiling with tension, as though expecting a blow or biting reprimand. Sam couldn't know where it all stemmed from, but it was just a matter of time to see if Steve would trust him.

Steve licked his lips, his mouth dry, and sticky as he tried to find the right words. He felt like talking about it was some kind of betrayal. To who though? Himself? _Rumlow?_ Rumlow had betrayed him in every sense possible, and if telling Sam about it was betraying _him,_ then that's _exactly_ what Steve wanted. He reached up, feverishly scratching at the back of his neck, his eyes dropped away. "You said- if there was something closer that I should-" Steve faltered, blinking hard, the behavior Rumlow had ingrained in him trying to shut his mouth. "That- I should-"

Sam's lips turned up in a patient smile, and he  set the plate aside, easing his weight back on the palms of his hands, open, and relaxed. "I'm all ears." He said simply, the invitation undeniable. He _wanted_ to hear what Steve had to say.

Nervously, Steve wet his mouth again, dropping his head before dragging in a steadying breath. He couldn't keep this buried any more. "There was...there was someone at S.H.I.E.L.D who...I was with." He started haltingly, his stomach twisting into a knot at the memory of working with Rumlow, of feeling his calloused hands tugging him into the bathroom at S.H.I.L.D. and pushing him onto his knees on the hard tiles. He swallowed stiffly, forcing the memory back. "We were _together_ but...he was one of _them."_

Sam's expression softened, his chin tipping to his chest as he processed Steve's words, his lips pressing into a tight line. "Your boyfriend was HYDRA?" He asked in a muted tone, shelving any surprise to process later. Outside of a few casual conversations, Sam knew little about Steve. Most of what he'd understood had come from old stories, and comics, and even in their first two meetings, Steve had proved a lot of his understanding wrong. He was learning more about Steve with every conversation, and he'd realized that he needed to scrap every assumption he'd _ever_ made about him. Steve Rogers couldn't be _more_ different from the Captain America everyone thought they knew.

Steve couldn't bring himself to answer Sam's question. He glance away, feeling sick. Hearing it in such explicit terms made his stomach twist with nausea.

"He have a name?" Sam asked after a long moment. Something simple, something easy to answer, something that wouldn't hurt Steve to remember.

Steve dragged in a steadying breath, his bright blue eyes sliding over to meet Sam's dark browns. _"Brock."_ He murmured in response and his ears suddenly caught the sound of a heel catching on carpet. Natasha had been passing the still open door, her own plate of food in her hands when she'd stopped dead, her eyes snapping into the bedroom.

 _"Rumlow?"_ She asked, her brow twitching into a little frown. "What about him?"

Steve hesitated for just a moment before coming to a decision. He and Natasha were on the same side now. _He trusted her._ She deserved to know just as much as Sam. He gave a little twitch of his head, a silent invitation, and Natasha walked through the doorway, resting against the wall opposite the bed. She speared a cube of potato on the end of her fork, popping it in her mouth before she turned her gaze back to him, waiting expectantly. Seeing her sheer casualness in the midst of a disaster like this was _almost_ enough to make Steve smile.

But the moment passed the second he remembered her question. "Brock and I were together." He said softly, his tone flat, strangling out the emotion because it was too painful to let slip from his lips. So he let it burn under his skin instead.

Natasha's brow drew tighter, her fork coming to rest on the edge of her plate as her lips pressed into a tight line. It made sense. While they'd been under cover, she'd seen _something_ in Steve's expression when his gaze had caught on Rumlow, heading up the escalator towards them. His eyes had flickered with something deep, and painful, but she hadn't had time to think about it before dragging Steve into a kiss, feeling him flinch under the contact. Until now, she's dismissed it. Sam was taking care to only ask Steve what he felt wouldn't hurt him, but Natasha's social tact was not so well developed, and her mind clawed relentlessly for answers.

"Is that why you keep flinching whenever someone touches you?" She asked evenly, putting together the pieces. She knew what Rumlow was like professionally, and she didn't like what she saw. She could only guess what he was like in a personal environment.

Steve's heart lurched, but under his companion's watchful gazes, he suppressed the instinct to flinch. A part of him hated Natasha for asking. "Why would you-" he started, but Nat was already shrugging, sparing pointing out to him that he was a poor liar _again._

"Rumlow's got a mean streak." She said, glancing to the side before beginning to absently play with her fork. "I've seen him work on some less than savory cases. _He's a sadist,_ and if he's anything like how he is at work in private, I can get why you might be a little head shy."

Sam followed her gaze over to Steve, reading his reaction as best he could. He was pale, looking a little sick, and Sam could imagine that opening up about an abusive relationship would be difficult for Steve. He thought he had to be strong, carry the world on his back and not trouble anyone with problems of his own. He was supposed to be the stable one. He was supposed to take people's troubles, not give them _his._ And that was excluding anything his abusive ex-lover might have planted in his mind about trusting people.

Sam didn't like prying. He liked people to come around on their own, open up naturally, but Steve was so tightly closed he might need a little prompting. He'd boxed himself in, without so much as a crack for air, and then Rumlow had locked it from the outside. He'd closed himself in on his own, but it was because of _Rumlow_ that he now couldn't get out without help. "Steve," Sam said quietly, drawing his attention. If he could get him to talk about even just _one_ thing, it would break the lock, and then Steve could choose how much he could opened up, and when. He just needed to know he _could._

_"Did he hit you?"_

Steve couldn't look at them. _Either_ of them. He couldn't decide it he felt supported, or ganged up on. Then again, it had been so long since he'd _had_ support that he probably wouldn't recognize it even if he felt it. He didn't want to answer. He didn't want to admit everything Rumlow had done to him. It made him feel filthy, and _used,_ like a sex toy; like he should be thrown away. But Sam hadn't asked for him to tell _everything._ He'd asked only one question. One thing. _Did he hit you?_

 _"Sometimes."_ Steve murmured simply, before tensing for the backlash, his skin prickling as he waited for the accusations. _Why didn't you just leave? It couldn't have been all that bad if you still stayed him. You're strong enough to fight back, you sure you didn't like it?_ But Steve was met with silence. Sam was waiting patiently. Natasha had her eyes dropped away. He swallowed, the silence pressing him on, and something driving him to continue. "I guess- when he was mad, if I'd done something _...I probably deserved it,_ but- most of the time i- it was in bed..." He stammered, his cheeks heating, because regardless of how dirty his sex life was, it was still private, and he wasn't really comfortable discussing it. "I consented to it- _I think_ \- but-"

"You _think?"_ Natasha asked, and Sam glanced over, trying to balance his approach with hers. She was much more forward, much more insistent, than his patient approach, but maybe it would be more effective in the end. He just hoped it didn't _hurt_ Steve.

" _I don't know-_ " Steve blurted quickly, glancing away uncomfortably. "I- I couldn't tell. I couldn't tell after a while." He admitted, a shiver running up his spine and he kept his gaze rooted to the floor.

"Steve-" Sam said, his hand gripping over his forearm, firm, and gentle, offering support. "Consent's a _yes_ or _no_ thing. If you weren't sure, or couldn't tell, then he didn't have your consent. You didn't _deserve_ to get hit just 'cause he was angry, and he didn't have any right to hurt you just because it was within a sexual setting...that doesn't make it okay."

Steve's stomach tightened, but his gaze dropped to Sam's dark hand resting against his pale forearm, and he realized it was probably the first time someone had touched him without malice or an agenda in months. The first time would have been Natasha, pulling him into the soft, open mouthed kiss while they were undercover, but it had been a ploy. A means to an end. This was different. Sam's grip was warm, and comforting, and Steve felt the knot in his gut begin to ease. Sam didn't want anything from him. He didn't want fame by association, or attention as a hero. He didn't want to manipulate Steve or hurt him. He was good. He wanted to help, and any suspicions or doubt Rumlow had burned into his mind about him suddenly faded.

_He could trust Sam._

"I know." He managed, trying a tight smile. _Of course_ Sam was right. Steve had always been very careful to get explicit consent from anyone he slept with, even if they'd been together in the past. Every new time required new confirmation. But now that Sam had framed his and Rumlow's relationship within that light, Steve wasn't sure if Rumlow had _ever_ asked his consent, at least not _properly._ He remembered his hands gripping into his body with bruising force, his teeth catching, and scraping against the soft skin of the throat. He remembered him hissing low, filthy words in his ear. ' _You like that don't you?' 'You want me to fuck your tight ass right open, don't you, y'little whore.'_ Steve had always considered that that was just Rumlow's way of asking his consent, but now, he realized that'd only ever left room for one answer. _Yes._ Brock had never once asked for his consent in a way that left Steve even the _possibility_ of saying no, and the realization made his stomach twist with nausea.

Sam watched Steve carefully, his dark brown eyes drinking him in. He could see the complexity of the situation Steve found himself trapped in. He _understood,_ in theory, about consent, and abuse. He _understood_ that it wasn't right for someone to hit him, unless they'd explicitly discussed that that was something he enjoyed. But  _Steve didn't_. He _hated_ when the flat of Rumlow's hand would crack viciously across his cheek as he demanded increasingly more demeaning things of him. He _hated_ when he was so rough in bed that Steve would tear, and bleed, leaving him, a shuddering mess, on soaked sheets. He _understood_ that it was wrong, but he couldn't walk away. That was the sick thing about abusive relationships. Steve knew that he was only being hurt, but Rumlow had so twisted his heart that he didn't feel that he had any _choice_ but to stay. And on top of it all, Steve had been conditioned to not talk about it. Even in the brief glimpse that he and Natasha had gotten into the abuse Steve had endured, he was still building an unconscious defense. Yes he hit me, but only _sometimes._ Yes he hit me, but it was okay, because I _think_ I consented. He was so deeply buried under the abuse and emotional manipulation that he instinctively excused Rumlow's action, even knowing what he'd done. Even after he'd tried to kill him.

Steve's healing was not a process that would happen overnight. It would take time. Maybe a very long time.

As it was, Steve's lips were pressing into a thin line, his shoulder's hunched, posture not inviting further conversation on the topic. He was weary, and broken, still trying to reconcile the hideous realization that had been forced on him. Sam didn't know Steve's current state of mind, but he hoped what little he'd done had been at least a first step towards Steve's healing. It wasn't as simple as talking it all out until everything that hurt Steve was out in the open. He needed time, and support. He needed understanding, and the tacit knowledge that he could come to his friends when he was ready. But Steve wasn't quite there yet. He wasn't ready to face everything, and Sam was just thankful for the minute progress they had made.

Sam gently removed his hand from Steve's arm, watching him curiously for a moment longer, before carefully gripping his broad, tense shoulder. _"Hey..."_ He said quietly, drawing Steve's reluctant gaze up to him. He waited for just a moment, waited till Steve was looking at him, really _looking_ at him before pressing on. "Its _not_ your fault." He murmured, giving a short, purposeful nod. "Okay? Anything he did to you, _its not you're fault."_

Steve swallowed, captivated by the earnest expression on Sam's face. _It's not my fault._ That wasn't a phrase he was used to accepting. It was _always_ his fault. Erskine- Bucky- Peggy- _His fault._ Each and every one of them. Fury? _His fault._ Why wouldn't Rumlow be his fault too? Why wouldn't it be _his_ fault that he'd stayed in a relationship that had only brought pain, and physical, and emotional trauma. Why wouldn't it be _his_ fault that he hadn't seen that Rumlow was never on his side, that he never wanted him, _love him;_ that he used him just for the fun of it? But Sam's gaze was so level, and laced with such utter conviction, that Steve could _almost_ believe him. He wanted too, and maybe someday he would. But in a way, it was comforting just to know that _Sam_ believed it, that _he_ didn't blame him.

Steve dipped his head, that fragile little smile touching his mouth, that fragile little _'I'm so close to breaking but I don't want to bother or upset you'_ smile that made Sam's heart _ache._ "Thank you..." He murmured, glancing back up to him, still trying to hold his shattered pieces together long enough so that Sam wouldn't see.

Sam could see he was hiding. He could see Steve retreating back into his shell, holding his wounds close to his chest, but he let him go. He hated to see Steve, to see _anyone,_ hurting, but he knew pressing Steve any more tonight would do him more harm than good. He needed time to think, to let the realization that he had friends, and support settle in his mind. So Sam made himself release Steve's shoulder, giving it a comforting clap as he offered him his space. "Any time." He said warmly, his gaze meeting Steve's evenly so he knew he really meant it. _Any time._ Steve was welcome to talk to him anytime, and anytime, Sam would listen. And then he turned, and stepped out of the room, leaving the plate of food behind just in case.

Natasha had been silent for a long time, standing against the wall with her arms crossed in front of her, brow drawn. She didn't like that she hadn't noticed what had been happening, but not for the usual reason. Usually, Natasha hated missing something because it meant she hadn't been perceptive enough, overlooking a potential danger or asset. But this time was different. This time, she hated that she'd missed it, but not for herself; _for Steve_. They worked in different divisions. Steve was a soldier. She was a spy. At work, they _barely_ crossed paths. Until just today, they hadn't even _trusted_ each other, but still, had she seen earlier, she could have helped. Knowing Steve had spent the past several months in an extremely abusive relationship I.D'd behaviors she hadn't been able to place before, and it chaffed Natasha to think that, because she'd overlooked something she'd thought was insignificant, Steve had been trapped with a sadist who hurt, used, and ultimately tried to kill him.

She drew away from the wall, the ends of her still damp russet hair brushing across the tops of her shoulders as she moved. Natasha waited until the tiny quirks in Steve's demeanor showed that he'd register her movement before she bent, plate of food still in hand, her expression hard, her words dripping with toxic fury. "Rumlow's a bastard." Natasha hissed, her smooth alto low, and raspy, her mouth set in a tight line. "and when I go to hell I'm gonna drag him down with me, dead or alive."

Steve faltered, blinking in mute shock. Natasha wasn't as tactful as Sam. Her approached was straightforward and blunt, but the vicious protectiveness, in her tone blindsided him, leaving him grappling with shock, and confusion. In a way, her words stung, but it was the kind of hurt that eventually gave way to healing. Like talking about Bucky for the first time in decades, it was like alcohol in a wound, burning, but at the same time, cleansing. It was nothing like Sam's quiet understanding, and patience, but it made his throat tighten none the less.

Natasha was willing to embrace an anger that Steve was too emotionally tangled to feel. When Steve though of Rumlow, he felt sick, and guilty, and used. _He felt hurt._ But Natasha felt _rage,_ and she was willing to act on it on Steve's behalf. Like an avenging angle, composed of pure fire and steel. Steve had given up on finding someone like Sam, who understood, and listened, and healed, but he'd also given up on finding someone like Natasha, who would kill to avenge the damage that had been done to him.

_And now he'd found both._

For the first time in months, Steve almost felt _lucky._

Steve's fragile little smile cracked into something different, a little deeper, a little more genuine. "I think I'd like to see that." Steve murmured, as Natasha pulled back, fixing him with that mysterious little smirk that glazed over the moment of raw, protective rage, and strolled out of the room, casually resuming her dinner as she left.

-.-

Sam knew PTSD. After the Air Force; after watching the RPG hit, after watching Rylie's body _break_ mid-fight before dropping to the earth like a stone, Sam _knew_ PTSD. _He'd lived it._ He was no stranger to nightmares, or a loss of appetite, or of having to make himself get out of bed, and shower. He was no stranger to jumping at loud noises, or being suddenly crippled by flashbulb memories that hit so vividly he could _see_ the flash of the grenade as it tore Rylie to _shreds._ He knew what it was like for his bed to feel too soft, too empty, too _lonely._

So he wasn't a _bit_ surprised to find Steve Rogers ghosting through his house at two in the morning.

When Sam stepped curiously out of his room, he caught just a glimpse of Steve before he slipped into the kitchen on silent feet, carrying a half finished plate of food. The other man smiled faintly, before clicking closed his bedroom door and following in his wake, slowing his pace before he rested against the door jam.

"Can't sleep?" Sam asked, and was relieved when Steve didn't flinch or jerk around guiltily to face him.

He turned, a little surprised to find Sam still up, but not alarmed, and he managed a little smile, setting his dishes down in the sink. _"That obvious?"_ He asked in response, sparing asking Sam what _he_ was still doing awake at this time of night.

Sam just snorted, pulling away from the door jam with an easy smile. "Little bit." He smirked, before tipping his head towards the living room. "I was just gonna put something crappy and brainless on the t.v if you wanna join me." He offered, remembering when he would have done _anything_ for someone to just be in the same room with him. He remembered when he couldn't talk about the hurt, and when he was too plagued by nightmares to sleep, but craved even silent human company. He wanted Steve to have the opportunity to accept what he would have killed for, or even to just know that the invitation had been extended. But in a moment, Sam could already guess his answer.

Steve's face went slack with relief. Laying in the dark bedroom by himself was _torture._ The silence was deafening, the darkness suffocating, he couldn't settle or chase the nightmares and memories from his mind. Its what had spurred him to wander Sam's home in the middle of the night, unable to rest. But the thought of sitting beside his newfound friend, and one of the few people in the world he could trust, with the t.v drowning out the roar of his thoughts, was appealing, and Steve nodded hurriedly. _"Yeah,_ that sounds good...sure"

Sam nodded, and walked away from the kitchen door. Leaving Steve to make his way in at his own pace, he snatched up the remote from the coffee table, and tuned the t.v. into a station that was rolling old episode of M.A.S.H. Once he had the channel set, and the volume on low, he settled down in the far corner of the sofa, a pillow stuffed under the crook of his arm.

Steve slipped from the kitchen a few minutes later, hesitating as he took in Sam's position. He'd left him a choice. Steve could choose to take the opposite corner, distance himself from Sam if that's what he needed, but the middle cushion was also open, and Steve felt a little tug of conflicted uncertainty in his gut. He was conditioned not to trust people. He was conditioned that touch usually meant _pain,_ or _manipulation._ But he could _see_ that conditioning now, and the deeply stubborn part of him that had been twisted and choked nearly to death sudden pushed back against it, and Steve purposefully settled himself on the cushion nearest to Sam.

Sam's reaction to Steve's decision showed only in a faint turning up of the corners of his lips, but he remained relaxed, and apparently absorbed in the old t.v. show, one arm crooked around the pillow, the opposite resting along the back of the couch behind Steve's head.

Twenty minutes later, Natasha joined them, wedging herself into the corner with her head in her arms and her feet against Steve's thigh. Forty minutes later, Steve _finally_ fell asleep, his head dropping against Sam's shoulder, mouth open, body relaxed. It was the first time Steve had slept well in a _very_ long while. For once, he wasn't alone. He wasn't struggling to hold back his sobs as Rumlow nuzzled in against the back of his neck, and he wasn't trying to sleep half-curled in a stiff hospital chair, waiting to hear whether or not the director would live. When Natasha's legs found their way all the way across his lap, Steve didn't flinch, and when Sam's arm curled around the top of his shoulder, he slumped into the gentle contact. And for the first time in a very long time, Steve felt _safe._

_-.-_

The next morning, Sam chose to ignore damp patch of super soldier drool on his shoulder, and Natasha _staunchly_ denied that she whiffled in her sleep. They had bigger things to worry about. They needed to find Jasper Sitwell. They needed to wrench the information regarding Zola's algorithm from him, and they needed to know whether it could be used against HYDRA, or whether it was tailored to be used against _them._ They needed to avenge the death of the Director, and take HYDRA apart piece by piece, and through it all, Steve couldn't shake the image of the metal armed assassin. He was a threat. He had killed Direction Fury, and if he couldn't be captured, he needed to be taken out.  

The odds didn't look good.

Steve _wanted_ to believe that they weren't the only ones, that there were others who would stand up against HYDRA, but that wasn't a hope they could count on. But if there was no one else, if Steve had only _two_ others on his side, he was glad it was Sam and Natasha.


	7. T-24 Hours to Helicarrier Incident

For just a moment, something in Steve's dark, fucked up world was right. For just a moment, he understood why he was still here.

_Bucky._

By some twisted miracle, Bucky was alive. He didn't know how, or why, and his mind couldn't abide the realization that he was against them, but he was _alive._ And suddenly, Steve knew why he hadn't been able to die. He knew why he hadn't died when the plane had crashed into the arctic; why he hadn't been able to pull the trigger on those low nights, alone in his apartment. He knew why he kept giving up his life over and over only for the universe to drag him back and make him give it again.

_Because Bucky was alive._

Somehow, almost a century after letting Bucky slip from his grasp, _something_ had brought them back together. But it had brought him back different. His was strapped with solid muscle, and his face had hardened. Bucky's smooth, dark chestnut hair had grown overlong, hanging in his face and eyes, and his _eye_ -God- they were _haunted._ His face was pale, and despite his strength and raw power, he looked sick, his cheeks sunken, lips dry and cracked.

But it didn't matter.

He was alive- Bucky was _alive-_ and Steve felt his entire body tense with with an emotion too cluttered to name. His stomach was in knots of adrenaline, and fear, and disbelief. But at staring at Bucky, even _now,_ even so different, so many decades later, Steve felt his chest constrict with a yearning so deep it made his very _bones_ hurt. _He loved him. God he loved him._ Nothing was ever gonna change that, not even death, not even eighty years; not even _this._

_"Bucky?"_ He breathed, smoke burning his eyes, but he was afraid to blink. He was afraid if he closed his eyes for even a moment, he'd vanish, and Steve would be left grasping at the vapors of a stress-induced hallucination. He would have to again live with the knowledge that it hadn't been real, and Bucky was really gone.

The Asset's eyes locked with that of his target, and something coiled in the pit of his stomach, something unfamiliar, and terrifying: _recognition._ He knew him.

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

_And suddenly, everything was wrong again._

The Asset faltered, his focus breaking, heart stuttering in his chest. _An emotional response._ An emotional response would warrant punishment; reconditioning. HYDRA would hurt him for speaking to his target, for letting anything beyond a robotic acceptance of orders slip out. But the man had dragged it from deep inside his gut, wrenching emotions from him that he wasn't even aware he had. The Asset wasn't a creature of emotion. He was a _tool,_ a _weapon._ He wasn't supposed to be able to- He wasn't programmed to-

Suddenly, the Asset's will cracked, and the gun whipped up, HYDRA's brutality snapping his mind back into the mold they'd shaped it to. They would hurt him for speaking to the man who breathed that name with such tenderness, and longing. They would hurt him for his weakness. But if he completed his mission, killed the man on the bridge, _maybe_ they wouldn't. The Asset didn't know how to hope, but the shredded, bleeding piece of his soul that remained human _screamed_ for relief.

As the gun abruptly snapped up, Steve's stomach plunged sickly and his heart turned to lead in his chest as he stared at the broken, hollow face of the man he loved. He was rigid, and stoic, like the dead eyed image of the soldier in the museum; cold, and impersonal. Heartless. _Not his Bucky._

But he _was._

It didn't matter what he looked like. Steve knew every inch of Bucky. He'd run his slender, artistic fingers over his back and ribs. He'd laid soft lines of kisses down his spine until Bucky released a low, breathy _moan_ of pleasure, only to have Steve dig his fingers into his ticklish underarms. He'd stroked over the hardened muscle that had come with the war as Bucky returned the touch, exploring the new body the serum had given him with equal parts amazement and distrust. Bucky had looked different _then,_ and he looked different _now,_ but it didn't matter. The metal arm and long hair didn't matter, nor did the dead eyes, and broken brutality. He _was_ his Bucky. He was his Bucky, _and he was going to kill him._

His mark was just standing there, _staring._ His eyes were fixed on him, wide, and frozen with shock. He was an open target, and the Asset's finger tightened on the trigger. He envisioned the bullet cracking through the front of the man's skull, imagined him hitting the ground, dead in a pool of his own blood, and _prayed_  it absolved him of his weakness. The image of the blond haired man, dead on the ground, made the Assets stomach twist with an unexpected nausea, but he forced it back, and lined up his sights.

Pain _exploded_ through the Asset's head.

He lurched forward, hitting the ground with a sharp _crack,_ alarm flaring through his body. He was clear. No one should have been close enough to hit him. How-

Sam's feet connected to the ground with a _thump,_ the mechanized wings snapping against the air, protective goggles sealed over his eyes. Realization settled in the Asset's chest. The one direction he hadn't thought to check: _up._ But it didn't matter. He had a mission, and if he didn't complete it, his handlers would hurt him. _And he would deserve it._

He rolled to his feet, his dark, unwashed hair falling in his eyes before he whipped it away, and found his eyes locked with the man on the bridge.

Steve's gaze caught Bucky's, and he felt a crackle like electricity race up his spine as their eyes met. Bucky had frozen. Just for a second, he'd stopped, their eyes locking together, and Steve's saw him falter. He saw Bucky's eyes, the beautiful, storm blue eyes that had stopped him cold that night on the roof, widen with something just _edging_ towards recognition. Steve felt his mouth go dry, his chest so tight he thought it would burst, and suddenly, he wanted to _scream._  He wanted to race to him and grab his arms, and shake him out of the sick web of manipulation he was tangled in. He wanted to drag him into his arms and and cradle him close; wanted to hold his face in his hands and kiss his mouth and cheeks and jaw. He wanted to feel Bucky's rough stubble against his mouth, and let himself cry, let himself cling to Bucky and whisper soft, broken words in his ear. _Remember me- You've got to remember me- Bucky- I love you._

The Asset felt recognition like acid burn in his chest, his eyes widening with panic. He knew him. _Oh god._ He _knew_ him. He stared at Steve through the loose strands of his filthy hair, his gaze snapping down, scrambling through his limited memory. His orders and programming _screamed_ in his head, tearing throbbing gashes into his mind that let the hazy memories dribble out like thick, congealing blood, and the Asset felt a lance of pain through his head that made him physically flinch. He- he couldn't- He couldn't. H _e had to kill him._

Steve watched the gun snap up, watched his lover's finger draw against the trigger, and realized mutely that he'd been forced to live this long so that he could find Bucky again. And now- mere moments after finding him, Bucky was going to kill him. _And Steve would let him,_ because he couldn't bare the thought of hurting Bucky. Not for anything in the world, not even for his own life. 

Steve registered, almost too late, the heavy _hiss_ of an RPG streaking through the air, and he dropped to the ground like a stone. Less than a second later, the car beside Bucky _exploded_ into flames, and Steve's heart stopped. He stumbled to his feet, wide eyed, and frantic, horror twisting, and coiling around his heart, constricting so tight he thought it would burst. _Please don't be dead._ The smoke burning Steve's eyes, blocking his vision. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nat dropping against the side of a vehicle, the RPG launcher in one hand, the other pressed to her shoulder, thick blood slowly oozing from a bullet hole straight through her. Steve's gaze snapped back to the burning wreckage the RPG had left in its wake, the smoke slowly thinning just enough for Steve to realize that Bucky was gone. No broken body was crumpled on the asphalt, no figure limping away. He was gone. Vanished without a trace.

_That wasn't right_.

_He wouldn't have just retreated and let them go. There had to be some reason why he would have-_

The wail of a siren hit Steve's eardrums like a white hot needle, and before he could even register its source, he found himself surrounded. S.H.E.I.L.D. agents, now showing themselves to be HYDRA, swarmed the area, guns leveled, fingers already tense on the triggers. Every one of them was champing at the bit to put a bullet in them, and Steve realized with a weight the like lead settling in his gut, that to give them a reason to would be suicide. They were out numbered, and out gunned, and at the moment, Steve _almost_ didn't care.

_Bucky was alive._

He should have been _thrilled,_ relieved beyond _anything_ he'd ever felt before _,_ but it was all wrong. Bucky was alive, and he didn't know him. He'd tried to killed him...he looked sick, and broken, and it twisted Steve gut to imagine what had happened to make him that way. Someone had done this to him. Someone had hurt, and mangled his best friend -his love- and turned him into the silent, dead eyed murderer he'd faced today. _HYDRA._ There was no other answer. Somehow, Bucky had survived the fall, and HYDRA had gotten their hands on him, only to twist, and mold, and break him into something he wasn't. _A ruthless, emotionless killer._ They'd carved out his best friend's loyalty, his kindness, and warmth, and bright, teasing smile. They'd raggedly hacked out his bravery, and selflessness, and left only his raw power and skill, untampered by morality or mercy.

Steve felt what was left of his world crumbling around him, the destruction surrounding him fading to white noise. Through his glassy, unfocused eyes, he saw Rumlow coming at him, and didn't even blink. Vaguely, he registered that the sight of Rumlow should do more to him, that he should feel anger, or hurt, even feel the nausea and shame resurfacing. But it was all dull; all flat and colorless compared to the realization that tore through his body like a rusty blade. _Bucky was alive._ What else could matter when Bucky was alive?

Through the smoke, Rumlow caught sight of Steve. He was just _standing,_ eyes fixed wide, chest heaving, expression blank with shock. He looked sick, and Rumlow felt a twinge deep in his gut. So the Winter Soldier hadn't killed him after all. Rumlow _loathed_ to think that the twinge was _relief._ Abruptly, Brock snapped out of the moment of weakness and leveled his gun, moving in as the S.T.R.I.K.E. team surrounded Rogers and his two companions.

_"Drop the shield, Cap, get on your knees."_ He ordered, his voice low, and ringing with authority. "Get on you're knees! Get down- _get down!"_ The tension went out of Steve's legs and Rumlow took the opportunity, viciously striking the soft backside of Steve's knee with his heel and Steve lurched, buckling as he hit the hard pavement. " _Get on you're knees-_ don't move." Rumlow snarled as Steve slowly lifted his hands, resting them behind his head, expression stunned, and blank. Brock dropped down directly behind him, gun readied if he made an unexpected move, eyes fixed on the profile of Steve's face. He dragged in a deep breath through his nose. Steve smelled like sweat, and _fear,_ and smoke. There was a quiver deep in his muscles, and his sinful pink lips were parted just slightly, eyes unseeing. He looked _heartsick._

A heavy click suddenly snapped Brock out of his distraction, his eyes wrenching away from Steve's slack, gorgeous face, only to see one of the men in his unit cocking his gun, leveling it at the back of Steve's skull. Panic crashed into Rumlow like a bucket of lead, suddenly faced with the image of Steve's head splitting _inches_ away from him, blood spraying everywhere as he dropped the the pavement; _lifeless._ His gut twisted with nausea, and Rumlow abruptly faced up to the relief he'd felt earlier when he'd found that the Winter Solider had not completed his mission. The realization turned his gut sour, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.

He didn't want Steve _dead._ He wanted him to be _his._

"Put the gun down." He hissed between his teeth, his gaze snapping up to the man, who's brow drew mutinously. The heavy thump of chopper blade's rang in his ears, and Brock knew before he'd even looked up that it was a media chopper. _Captain America's brains splattering the pavement on live television._ He could imagine the backlash now. Rumlow's jaw clenched, his eye darkening as he flicked his eyes up to the chopper. " _Not here-"_ he hissed, but the man didn't move, and Rumlow snapped. _"Not here!"_ The vicious, almost animalistic snarl in his commander's tone, back the man down, and the gun lowered, Rumlow letting out just a half breath of relief.

Steve's senses were working against him. Rumlow's voice was right beside his ear, but his mind register the words only dimly. His breath washed, hot across the back of his neck, and Steve didn't even feel his flesh creep. He didn't see the swarm of HYRDA agents surrounding him, he didn't smell the acrid smoke, or feel Brock's fingers curling over the top of his shoulder and around his upper arm, dragging him to his feet. He just felt numb. _Bucky was alive._ He was alive. And it made everything so much worse, because now, not only had be betrayed Bucky's _memory,_ but he'd betrayed _him._ He had let himself be taken completely, given parts of himself away that _should_ have belonged only to Bucky. He'd let himself _almost_ fall in love with someone else while the love of his life was still alive; not only alive, but _needing_ him. And where had he been? Trying to move on. Letting himself be used _-dominated-_ by a man working for the people who had hurt Bucky, twisted him until there wasn't so much as a shadow left of the man he used to be. His hands and arms burned, everywhere that had unknowingly touched the man he loved. The skin across his palms prickled, his chest tightening at the memory of Bucky pressing him, full body against the side of the van, blade inches from Steve's face. He'd felt his chest against his own, his arms grappling with his to- _to hurt him_...Bucky had been trying to hurt- _no- kill_ him. 

As he finally accepted that first realization, the fog that filled Steve's mind lifted just long enough to let emotion creep through. And the first sensation that broke through the haze was pain. He could feel it clawing in his bones, dull at first, before tearing at him with jagged, broken nails, leaving him wounded, blood oozing from his shredded heart. He stumbled blindly behind Sam and Natasha, blinking sluggishly, feeling Rumlow's hands forcing him roughly along. The shock wasn't wearing off. Everything inside him seared with white hot pain, but his mind would clear. It just kept circling, looping, and skipping like a broken record- _he's alive- he's alive- he's alive-_

Brock watched over Steve's broad shoulder as the other men from the S.T.R.I.K.E. team pushed Steve's companions into the back of a prison transport; the dark skinned stranger with the wings first, Romanoff shortly behind. But Rumlow held Steve back. He had been directly behind him, within inches of him, breathing on Steve's neck and speaking into his ear, and Steve hadn't so much as _looked_  at him. Rumlow felt his stomach turn with a twisted jealously that made his skin crawl, and his blood boil. Steve was _not_ going to ignore him over that- _thing._ Brock tugged Steve back, stilling his movement as his broad shoulders _thumped_ softly against his chest. He complied easily. Like a rag doll. Like a puppet with its strings cut. Rumlow eased forward, slow at first, before craning his neck to breath into Steve's ear. "Two days and you're already running back to me, huh, Stevie?" He breathed, low, and cruel against Steve's ear, his hand curling tighter around his upper arm as the end of his pistol pressed into the joint of Steve's neck and head. "You just can't manage without me can you?"

Steve didn't even glance at him.

The twist of jealously in the pit of Rumlow's stomach abruptly coiled, tightening, and growing, forcing itself up his throat and into his skull, and the corners of his vision went dark with rage. He wasn't going to let this happen- He wasn't going to loose him- not now. _He wanted him._ The desire and entitled possession burned through Brock's veins like fire, and he felt it parching him, leaving in its wake a _need_ so strong he was helpless against it. He _needed_ him. He _needed_ to have Steve to himself to slake the burning, aching thirst that had torn out of his control. He needed to hide him away where no one else would ever find him and make Steve _his;_ _own him_. He _needed_ Steve to belong to him.

His rough, calloused fingers abruptly curled into Steve's narrow waist, dragging him flush against the front of his hips, and he shifted forward, grinding against Steve's ass. "Why don't you ride with me, huh?" Brock smirked cruelly, turning his mouth against the shell of Steve's ear, tracing it with his flushed, wet lips, feeling it grow warm under his touch. "-s't been a while since I've had you to myself...I could relax all that tension a bit...used those handcuffs in some ways I _know_ you'll like..." His hand slid from his waist back, the barrel of his gun still resting lightly against the back of his skull as his fingers dug into the soft skin of Steve's ass, groping him through the suit. He could felt his cock hardening at the image of handcuffing Steve to one of the benches in the back of the transport and fucking him with his pants around his ankles, and the upper part of his suit hiked up under his arms. He could imagine the way his cock would rest, hard against his stomach, and how _sinful_ his nipples would look all tight and flushed, wet with Brock's saliva. Rumlow ground harder against Steve, wanting him to feel his arousal even through the layers clothing and tactical gear, wanted him to remember that he _owned_ him, and he was to do _whatever_ Rumlow asked of him.

But Steve's gaze was still blank, and unfocused, his lips twitching as he mouthed silent words to himself, and he didn't so much as _flinch_ as Rumlow rutted against him.

Suddenly, Brock's patience _snapped._

A blunt, vicious force _cracked_ into the back of Steve's skull, pain exploding through his head in a white hot flash, as he lurched forward with a cry. For one, horrifying second, his disoriented mind registered he'd been shot, realizing that Rumlow must have decided to finish the job he'd been sent to start. But suddenly, he felt his hand curling into his narrow waist, and felt himself being dragged back to his feet. _He hadn't been shot._ Rumlow had pulled back, and cracked the gun across the back of his head, leaving him staggering, and reeling, his head throbbing with pain.

Rage boiled in Rumlow's gut as he dragged Steve up, gripping his jaw in one, rough hand, and viciously wrenching him around to look him in the eye. "Don't you _dare_ ignore me again you fucking _useless_ bitch-" He snarled, the barrel of the gun now pressing into the soft underside of his jaw with bruising force, pressing a dark ring into his skin. Steve's eyes locked with his, but his gaze was detached. He was  _looking_ at him, but still not really _seeing_ him. Steve was reeling from shock, and pain, his head pounding from the vicious blow, and he couldn't focus on Rumlow if he wanted to.

Abruptly, the rage in Rumlow's gut cooled, his grip softening on Steve's jaw. He _needed_ Steve, he needed him to listen to him, to want him again, and he only ever flinched under violence. "Hey-" He growled, an undertone of bitterness still edging his words, but he tipped his chin down, looking up at Steve earnestly. "I was just following orders, okay?" He breathed, the hand gripping his jaw sliding to the back of his neck, and drawing him forward with a comforting squeeze. "Okay, Cap? I was just doing what I was ordered- didn't have a choice... _didn't want to hurt you..."_ He breathed silkily, trying once more to distort what Steve _knew_ was true, make him believe that Rumlow had been a helpless pawn, doing what he had been ordered only to escape punishment. He needed Steve to believe that he hadn't been a willing participant in Pierce's game. Then- and _maybe_ then- would Steve's will crumble so that Rumlow could own him once more. He tugged Steve close, the taller man's forehead resting against his, still staring straight through him, but Brock didn't let it chaff his temper again. He needed Steve- _god-_ he needed him like a drug, and he knew it was going to take more than a few sugared words to bring him back this time. Rumlow wet his lips, his gaze flickering to the side to check that they were still alone. He'd been the last in the line to get his prisoner onto the transport, and the other man had already loaded up. Satisfied that he had another few moments to have Steve to himself, Rumlow parted his lips, a little tug of nervousness fluttering in his gut.

"Look." He breathed evenly, meeting Steve's glassy stare, his fingers curling into the side of his neck. "I tell you to do something, _you do it_ , alright? Do _exactly_ as I say... _and I'll get you out of this alive_...It's not gonna be pretty, and I can't guarantee what they'll do to you if they don't put you down- but I'll get you out alive, alright, Cap? It's a better deal than you're gonna get from HYDRA. So just do what I tell you to do." Rumlow gave a low snort, one side of his mouth lifting up in a crooked smile. _"Fuck-_ I've done plenty enough for them. If I ask nicely they'll let me keep you." Steve still wasn't reacting, and Rumlow pressed closer, a sympathetic sound slipping from his lip. _"Hey-"_ He breathed, cradling his jaw with his free hand, the gun now only just resting against Steve's skin. " _Trust me..."_ Rumlow murmured, his mouth brushing against Steve's. "Forget him- okay, Steve? _Forget him.._. _I_ know you. _I_ love you. He doesn't- alright? He doesn't remember you... _He doesn't love you..."_

Suddenly, clarity flashed through Steve's eyes, and his gaze snapped up, the haze clearing from his eyes, their piercing blue suddenly brought into sharp focus. _"You knew..."_ He breathed, and Brock felt a lance of adrenaline spike through him.

_"What?"_  

"You _knew-"_ Steve pressed again, drawing back away from Rumlow's as the numbness began to give way to a sudden, sickening horror. "All this time, you _knew_ and you _told_ me he was dead-" Steve's voice was low, and soft, but rang with an intensity that made Rumlow's skin crawl, and he unconsciously drew his head back, his grip tightening on the gun under Steve's jaw. The other man stared at him, eyes fixed straight through his skull as the horror of realization suddenly gave way to rage, and Steve's face contorted with fury. " _You knew!"_ He broke out through gritted teeth, suddenly lurching forward, but Rumlow pressed the gun deeper into the soft underside of his jaw, his eyes flashing with warning, and Steve stopped dead. He had used Bucky against him...He'd know he was alive, and had _still_ used his memory to manipulate him, whispering in his ear that _this was what Bucky would have wanted,_ making Steve believe that he _deserved_ how Rumlow had treated him. But there other voices adding to the cacophony of noise in Steve's head now; softer voices, voices that spoke words of comfort even amid all the chaos. 

_It's not you're fault._

The brief flare of rage burnt away, and sickened exhaustion crashed over Steve. He eased back, his stomach dropping out from under him as the numbness clawed at him, dragging him back under as his face went slack. _"You knew..."_ He whispered helplessly, the scratched record in his mind skipping again. _He's alive- Brock knew- He's alive- Brock knew- He's alive-_ Steve could feel the gun against his jaw, Rumlow ready to put a bullet in him if he made one wrong move, but the fight had gone out of him. Rumlow's words from minutes ago had seeped into his skin, infecting his mind and spreading through his veins like a poison. He'd offered him a way out; _do as I say and I'll get you out alive,_ and if Steve knew only one thing, it was that he'd rather _die_ than let Rumlow anywhere near him _ever_ again. Even at the cost of his own life, Steve could never live with himself if he went back, if he let Rumlow touch, and kiss him; _own him_. If he let him have him again, all the while knowing that he'd _known_ from the moment they'd met that Bucky was alive, and not only hadn't told him, but used that to make Steve fall in love with him. 

Rumlow felt a nervous agitation rising in his gut. _It wasn't working._ The cycle of behavior that had worked for _months_ to keep Steve submissive to him wasn't working. Anger, and violence to establish his dominance, plant just a seed of fear to keep him in check, follow by a little something to make Steve doubt his reality. _I was just following orders. I didn't want to hurt you._ And then the sweet words; apologies, promises. _I'll get you out of this. I love you._

_But it wasn't working._

Steve's eyes, even laced with shock and exhaustion, flickered with mutiny. He could tell just by the way he held himself, just by the way he looked at him, that Steve wasn't even _close_ to being coaxed back. Usually, Rumlow could lead him right to the edge, and then tip him over with just the right word, but not anymore. Steve was cold, and close, and his gentle assurance and promises were falling hollow on his ears. If it came at the cost of belonging to Rumlow, Steve didn't _want_ to get out alive. 

And suddenly, Steve turned his back to him, and stalked towards the transport truck. 

Rumlow blinked, momentarily shocked that Steve had the gall to just _walk away from him_. A half second later, he realized that Steve was dangerously out of his control, and he lunged forward, viciously grabbing his arm and dragging him close, the gun jamming into the joint of his neck and head. "Do you have a fucking _death wish?_ " Brock snarled, and Steve's head whipped around so fast he almost put a bullet in him right then and there.

_"I do if it means owing my life to you._ "

Brock's heart stuttered in his chest, pain twinging _-unexpected-_ somewhere deep inside him. _Steve would rather be dead than be with him.._.He hadn't expected that to hurt as much as it did, because some part of Rumlow, some deep, _twisted_ little part, in its own fucked up way, _almost_ loved him. It was more possession, more loving the way he could make Steve hurt as easily as he could make him smile, more that he liked being able to play Steve like a violin; jerk his string, make him dance. He loved the way Steve moaned, and squirmed underneath him, how Rumlow could make him sob, and beg for mercy and Steve would still forgive him only minutes later. He loved the way he could make Steve thirst for his love and approval so desperately that he could ask the most filthy, _degrading_ things of him and Steve would still be on his knees in moments to comply. He'd almost thought- He'd almost thought he could keep playing this game, that he could keep Steve for himself, and that Steve would learn to love the pain as much as Rumlow loved dealing it. That in some sick, twisted sense, they could have had something-

Abruptly, the sick _almost_ love turned turned to poison in his veins, suddenly burning up like an inferno, burning away to nothing, and burning Rumlow in the process. It turned bitter, and ugly, leaving him scarred inside, leaving only a burning imprint of the love he'd _almost_ had. Like a brand that Rumlow would now do _anything_ to scour from his skin. If he couldn't have Steve, he wanted him dead. _No-_ He wanted him to _suffer._ He wanted him to live in _agony,_ to see how long his super-human body could hold up to torture that would kill a normal human in days. He wanted to stalk through the hallways of HYDRA's lair, and see Steve Rogers, month after month, year after year, _still_ suffering, _still_ begging for a death that no one would grant him. _And he would deserve it._ Rumlow's hand suddenly lashed out, dragging Steve in by the collar of his suit. "Keep telling yourself that." He hissed brutally, his breath hot on his face, mouth inches from Steve's. "But when HYDRA's tortured you for every _scrap_ of information you have, and you're nothing more than a broken, bloody, _quivering_ pile of meat and flesh, remember _I_ offered you an out. _I_ could have gotten you out- but because you couldn't let go of your filthy, brainwashed, _murderer_ of a boyfriend, you get to _die_ instead, and you'd better hope I'm not the one sent to finally put a bullet in you're head 'cause I won't make it quick." Brock snarled, Suddenly shoving Steve backwards, his bruised back slamming into the transport before he hauled open the door beside him and shoved him through.

Steve stumbled back from the force of the hit, his head still throbbing from the blow of the gun, his body battered. Rough hands dragged him onto a hard seat, wrenching his legs into heavy cuffs, clapping a heavy, metal lock around his wrists and hands as he was strapped in; made completely helpless. His spine ached from the hit, every muscle in his body burning, and as he lifted his pounding head, he caught sight of Rumlow, still staring at him from outside the truck, his expression twisted with brutality. But Steve was beyond the hurt that Rumlow had inflicted on him, he was beyond the guilt, and nausea. All that was left, was a deep ache, and as though to throw salt in Rumlow's wounds, it had nothing to do with _him._

It was strange, not caring about Rumlow, not caring if he loved him or hated him, not caring if he wanted him dead, or if he wanted him to be _his._ Steve didn't care if Rumlow left him anymore. He didn't care if Rumlow wanted him, or if he tried to hurt, or kill him.  _All he cared about was Bucky._ He was all that mattered. Rumlow wasn't even a _footnote_ in Steve's life anymore, and it _burned_ Rumlow from the inside out. It was the purest, most brutal form revenge Steve could have _ever_ executed on him, and the most ironic part, was that Steve was too far gone to even care. 

As the doors of the transport swung closed, Brock caught the last glimpse of Steve; just sitting there, not even looking his way. He'd been all over him moments ago, touching him, grazing his mouth over Steve's, and now, Steve didn't even seem to be aware he existed, and it twisted the rusty blade that his rejection had buried in his gut. He should have been squirming, trying to shake the feeling of his hands on his skin, but he was utterly _still._ He didn't care. In the face of Bucky's return, Rumlow was insignificant. He didn't want him, and he never would again.

Rumlow set his jaw, turning, and stalking towards one of the other trucks, shoving a S.T.R.I.K.E. member viciously out of his path as he slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. He was going to make Steve pay for this. He was going to make him _hurt,_ and he was do anything necessary to accomplish that goal. He would do the personal honor of putting a bullet through each of his companion's heads as he was made to watch, because if he couldn't isolate Steve by one method, he was flexible enough to try others. He would make certain that Steve was kept cuffed to a stiff cot where he could take _anything_ he liked from Steve, make him do anything he wanted and see the look of nauseous horror on his face every time he strolled into his cell. Brock wanted him to know what he'd missed. He wanted him to regret every moment that he hadn't accepted Brock's offer. He could have gotten him out. He could have taken him away from the torture and prison cells and given him a life free of _most_ restriction, and all he would have had to do was be _his._ But Steve would have rather died than live a life with Rumlow in some twisted version of happiness, and now, Rumlow would take whatever he wanted from him by force. Brock had given him a choice, and he'd refused; now, Steve had lost the luxury of consent. Rumlow would take what he deserved and it would become yet another torture for him. His life would be agony, and to make it all worse, Brock would make sure he never laid eyes on his precious boyfriend again. Or better yet- let him be tortured until he was on the brink of death before bringing in his Bucky to finish the job. He wanted Steve to died at the hands of the man he'd sacrificed his last chance of a life without pain for. He wanted Bucky to kill Steve as brutally, and intimately as possible, so that it not only destroyed Steve in his last moments, but would haunt the Asset's nightmares every time he was out of kryo long enough to remember. 

One thing was for certain though; Rumlow had never hated anyone quite so much as he now hated Steve. 

 

 


	8. 1100 Hours Helicarrier Incident

He could almost  _see_ Bucky's eyes boring into him. His skin _burned_ at the memory of every blow had slammed into his body, splitting, and breaking his flesh and, in a twisted way, he was thankful. The pain was a reminder that it had been real, that Bucky was _alive,_ even though he was determined to kill him; even though his fists broke his skin and bones, and left him aching. Even though his blank, savage expression shattered Steve's heart in his chest. He wasn't the way Steve remembered him, but he couldn't make himself believe that Bucky couldn't be saved. He knew Sam meant well, that he wanted to see Steve come out of this alive, but he was still wrong.

Bucky _was_ the kind you save.

_He always had been._

He had been the kind you save when Steve had thrown his fragile, six year old self into a fight he couldn't have possibly won to defend Bucky when the playground bullies had ganged up on him. He'd been the kind you save years later, when Steve had faced the reality that Bucky was _probably_ dead, but had marched straight into hell to single-handedly drag him out anyways. Bucky would _always_ be worth saving, and even if he _wasn't,_ Steve was willing to die trying. Because he'd rather die trying to _save_ him, than kill Bucky trying to _stop_ him. 

A weight sunk down on the bench next to him, and Steve blinked sluggishly. This close to the final hour, he _should_ have been on red alert, but Bucky had a hold on his thoughts that he didn't even _try_ to shake, and it took him a moment to even _register_ who had sat down beside him. As his mind struggled to focus on the moment, Steve realized that Sam's shoulder was resting against his own, the other man already in full gear as they waited for Natasha to finalize preparations with Fury and Hill. His expression was a mask of calm, but Steve could see the sharp focus in his eyes, the focus Steve _needed_ to mimic if he wanted to help Bucky. He couldn't save him if he died after his first step off the transport. 

"You ready to go?" Sam murmured, speaking quietly in the space between them, his eyes flickering up to meet Steve's gaze, and Steve drew a deep breath, instinctively breaking the eye contact.

"Yeah- _sure."_ He breathed, before cracking a tight smile, looking up half-heartedly. But he could already see that Sam wasn't buying it. Sam had an intuition like Steve had never seen before, and hiding behind a smile was useless, because Sam used to do exactly the same thing. He knew what it was like to carry a weight like that, and he knew what it was like to try and ease people's worry. He understood not wanting to put his problems on another person, so Sam -like Steve- had put on a brave face. In time, he'd learned that it only stunted healing, slowly peeling back scabs that were beginning to form on raw wounds. It undid progress, and prolonging the pain. He'd learned to express his pain in a healthy fashion, and he only hoped that someday, Steve could be helped to do the same for himself.

Sam wet his lips, the sight of Steve's faint little smile making his chest ache with worry. _"Steve."_ He said quietly, his gaze level, and even, and he watched as Steve faltered, his mask slipping. 

Unconsciously, Steve rose to his feet, his arms closing around himself as he put distance between himself, and the support he was so unused to accepting. He didn't _quite_ know what to do with Sam, or Nat for that matter, but _that_ was no surprise. He'd _never_ known what to do with Nat. But Sam was different. He didn't always know the right thing to say, but he was always patient. He always extended a listening ear, or a distraction when that's what Steve needed most. He didn't push Steve when he could afford it, and though Steve begrudged when he did, it generally turned out for the better. Sam wasn't letting him hide behind his smile now. He wanted to get Steve's head clear so he didn't get himself killed, and he wasn't going to let him bullshit his way through a few offhanded comments to duck out of it. Steve's feet dragged to a stop, his shoulder tensing as he let out a long, ragged breath that rattled from his lungs, making his chest tighten with pain.

 _"No."_ He murmured, hearing a muted creak as Sam moved to his feet. He dropped his chin to his chest, the pain inside him growing more raw, _more acute_ the more he faced up to the hurt, and fear. "No...I'm _not_ ready- Sam- _I don't think I can do this..."_

Sam eased closer; cautious, and patient. His hand came to rest on the back of Steve's shoulder, touching -feather light for a moment to let him register the contact- before gripping him firmly, his touch solid, and real. "I don't blame you." He murmured, knowing this was one time that he had very little to offer Steve. All he could give him was his support, just his support, and the hope that -through all of it- Steve wouldn't run towards death just because it wore his best friend's face. 

"I don't want to hurt him." Steve said, his tone soft, and broken, his eyes lowered. But Sam's physical comfort, and emotional support went a long way to quiet the noise in his brain. It didn't make him any more sure. It didn't make him any less confused, or hurt, but despite all that, he felt less alone. 

_"I love him."_

Sam's grip eased on Steve's shoulder, still for just a moment before resuming the comforting pressure, his thumb rubbing in small circles over the material of his suit. Nothing should surprise him anymore. He had already thrown out everything he'd _thought_ he'd know about Steve from the films, and the stories, and comics, but hearing that Steve was in love with his best friend threw his reactions into perspective. It brought into biting clarity Steve's pain, and fear, and desperation. Because one love had already turned on him, and now another had clawed back up from the grave only to try and kill him, and Steve didn't know why.

It was no wonder he couldn't clear his head. 

There was nothing to say. Sam knew what love could do to a person, all the good it could bring, and all the pain it could deal. He knew what love could to do a person when it was ripped away, forcing one to keep living while the other was gone. But Sam couldn't _imagine_ what love could do when it was back from the dead. He eased forward now, shoulder to shoulder with Steve, his hand still resting comfortingly on his back. "Just promise me something, okay?" He said under his breath, eyes fixed forward, and Steve manage a muted hum in response. "Don't _let_ him hurt you. I know you don't want to fight him, but just- don't let him kill you, _alright?"_ His grip tightened on his shoulder, Sam's full lips pressing into a line. "I don't want to lose another friend."

Steve's breath stilled in his chest. _A friend._ Sam saw him as a friend. He guessed he'd known it, but hearing him say it outright soothed something inside Steve that had hurt for a very long time. _He wasn't alone._ He had Natasha, and he had Sam. They _cared_ about him, and Sam was worried for his safety. But it was a safety Steve couldn't promise him. After the silence had stretched between them for several long moments, Steve spoke, tipping his chin down against his chest. "I'll do my best..." He murmured, before lifting his eyes, his gaze catching seriously on Sam's. " _But Sam-"_

Sam didn't like the tone in Steve's voice, but he forced back the knot in his chest. "Yeah?"

_"I won't kill him."_

-.-

_He wanted to kill him._

Brock's dark eyes bored into the back of the Asset's skull, his blood boiling with rage, finger itching on the trigger of his gun. It was _his_ fault. _He'd_ cost him Steve, and Rumlow wanted to put a bullet in his head for it. If it hadn't been for what was left of Bucky Barnes, Steve would have come around. He would have fought, and struggled, and tried to resist Rumlow, but in time, he _would have_ come around. He would have bartered for the lives of his companions, and he would have taken the torture for as long as he could stand like the righteous asshole he was, but he would have eventually broken. And once Steve broke, Rumlow could have taken him away. He could have gotten HYDRA to give Steve to him; a bonus, a _pet,_ and he would have taken him somewhere Steve could have had some small measure of freedom. As long as he behaved himself and did as he was told, he _could_ have lived a life free of handcuffs, and torture, and all he would have had to do was obey Rumlow; submit to him completely.

It made arousal pool in the pit of his stomach just at the thought. Steve. His little pet. His house-husband. Sitting submissively, with his head on his thigh, taking whatever Brock dealt out with a whimper of pleasure and a needy little gasp, _knowing_ he deserved it, _knowing_ it was Rumlow's right to take whatever he wanted. It would have been _perfect._ And now, because of the Asset, he could _never_ get Steve back. 

The Asset stared blankly ahead, as the technicians did a final check on his arm, as soldiers equipped him with every tool he could _possibly_ need to take out Captain America. This wouldn't have been necessary had Steve and his team hadn't _somehow_ managed to escape the transport. But now, because of that, project Insight was in jeopardy, and the Asset was being brought in as extra security. The technicians finished, and Rumlow followed shortly behind as the Asset was lead into the lock outside the transport bay, waiting to be moved out. Once the doors were sealed, Rumlow found himself alone with the Asset. He was prepped, and battle-ready. He had his orders, and his focus was narrowed to just that. _He existed to kill Captain America._ He was a solid concentration of pure power and emotionless efficiency, but to his handlers he was helpless. He been conditioned through decades of brutality and control to be docile at the hands of his masters; harmless, and utterly submissive.

Rumlow realized with a sick curl of pleasure in his gut that he could hurt Barnes if he liked.

And the beautiful thing was, _the Asset would let him._

Brock could hit him unprovoked, and he would just stand there and take it. _He had to._ He had no other choice. If his handlers wanted to hurt him, the Asset had no choice but to believe that he'd done something to deserve it, and he wouldn't fight back, and he wouldn't ask questions. _He'd just take it._  The Asset already had his mission, so as much as Brock wanted to taunt him, he couldn't do anything that would trigger memories or else he might endanger his mission. But he could _still_ hurt him- No one would question a bruise, or injury, _especially_ since he'd come out of a fight with Captain America only yesterday. Rumlow couldn't hurt him so badly he wouldn't be able to fight, but he _could_ take out some of the searing rage boiling just under his skin. 

His boots struck heavily on the concrete floor, footfalls echoing in the bare room as he paced towards him. The other man stared straight ahead of him, his unwashed hair hanging in ragged strands in his face. His shoulders were squared, prepare for battle despite the vacancy in his gaze, and Rumow slid up just behind him. The Asset barely reacted. His breathing changed subtly as he recognized one of his handler's proximity, but he stayed completely still, eyes forward; vegetative, and submissive. Brock wet his lips, leaning close, his expression revealing only a hint of the fury churning in his gut.

"I'd _love_ to tell you just exactly what you cost me." He murmured, his tone still level despite the violence stirring in his chest. But the more he thought about it, the more it flared up, and his jaw tightened, a stress tick quivering by the corner of one eye. "Unfortunately, It'd put your mission at risk, so you're just gonna have to take my word for it when I tell you that you deserve this." Abruptly, Rumlow's knee jerked up, _slamming_ into the base of the Asset's spine and he lurched forward at the impact, a strangled grunt escaping his lips. The shot left Rumlow's leg tingling, his stomach tightening with a sadistic pleasure as his hand snapped forward, grabbing a fistful of the Asset's overlong hair. He dragged him forward, jaw locked, eyes black with rage as his fist _crashed_ into his jaw, dropping him to the bay floor. The Asset hit the ground with a heavy _thud,_ his eyes snapping up to Rumlow, but he'd been wiped only minutes before, and the mutiny that flashed in his gaze was dull, and deeply buried. Still, Rumlow was looking for every excuse to hurt him. The steel toe of his boot connected with his ribs in a vicious kick, bruising even trough the leather tactical gear, and the Soldier gritted out a stifled grunt of pain. 

_Thud_

A second shot.

The Asset curled instinctively onto his side, and Rumlow's boot brutally cracked into the base of his spine, before he stumbled back a pace, breathing heavily, the rage inside him irritated, and inflamed. 

As the unprovoked onslaught stopped, the Asset slowly uncurled, his breathing uneven, but his movements controlled. Slowly, staring at Rumlow so intensely it made his skin crawl, the Asset pulled himself to his feet, resuming his attention. His back straightened, eyes fixing evenly ahead, as he blocked out the pain in his jaw, ribs, and spine. Pain was a stimulus he'd been trained not to react to. If he was injured on a mission, he wasn't permitted to stop. He pushed his body, no matter how brutalized or broken, until the mission was complete, no exceptions. If he was shot, or broke a bone, he pushed through. If his arm was damaged so badly it hung by his side; a useless, sparking strip of metal, he calculated how to complete his objective one handed. His body didn't matter. It was a tool to be used, and nothing else. If it was broken, no one cared, not even the Asset. 

Rumlow squared his shoulders as the Asset dragged himself off the ground, gaze boring into him, but the Soldier didn't fight back. He steadied himself, and stared evenly at Rumlow, awaiting orders, or further punishment, and Rumlow stepped forward, abruptly invading the Asset's space. His fingers curled into the front of his gear, dragging his chest flush against his own, his teeth bared, mouth inches from his. Brock tipped his head back just slightly to look at him from under his coarse lashes, his tongue sliding out to wet his mouth. 

"When you kill your target-" Rumlow started, his voice having dropped off to a gravely whisper. _"Make sure it hurts._ No quick executions, _y'got it?_ Kill him good and slow. Make sure he sees your face."

The Asset's rigid gaze flickered, something that might have been confusion darting through his eyes. Brutality, and efficiency went hand in hand for the Asset. Quick, smooth killings were what he'd been trained for. He was programed as a means to an end, and torture killing was an unfamiliar order. Anyone could kill someone messily, it was doing it efficiently that was an art, and some warped part of him that  _tried_ to remember who he was prided himself on his efficiency. Something deep inside him remembered laying on his stomach behind a barricade and taking out an enemy with a single clean shot. No pain. No mess. Just _gone._ Something deep inside him remembered calculating the trajectory of each bullet, sometimes in a fraction of a second when he watched an enemy soldier slipping up behind- behind _...someone..._ Each bullet, each well placed, snapped spine was a work of art. Quick, and silent. But to kill someone slowly...

_It didn't matter._

His handler had ordered him to kill his target slowly, to make it hurt.

That was his mission now, and he _would_ complete it. 

He nodded, his dry, cracked lips parting to speak in a voice so low it almost didn't reach his handler's ears. "Confirmed." He said softly, pain spasming through his jaw, and he dropped his gaze. His handler nodded, but didn't look satisfied.

 _Nothing_ could satisfy Rumlow. _Not anymore_. He wanted to _own_ Steve, but he would have to settle for killing him. He wanted to _kill_ the Asset, but he had to settle for owning him. The ager simmering in his gut made him feel sick, his fisted hands burning to crack into the Asset's skin once more. _He wanted to kill him_. He wanted to kill him for taking Steve from him, for ruining everything. _He wanted to kill him. He wanted to-_

The bay doors opened, letting light spill into the small, steel room, and Brock felt his stomach tightened.

_It was time._

-.-

Steve's voice _burned_ in his ears, racing down the length of his spine and twisting the bitter hurt and rage inside him. He'd thrown a wrench in the plan much sooner than anticipated. Steve's words over the loudspeaker had stripped away HYDRA's cover, exposing them, turning half of S.H.I.E.L.D. against them, but the loss of subtly wasn't what was making Rumlow's blood turn hot with fury. It wasn't being in the open that make his gut tighten, and the hair lift on the back of his neck. It was having Steve _right there_ , maybe only a few _rooms_ away, and not being able to get to him. There was so much he wanted to do to him- for _leaving_ him- for _recoiling_ at his offer like being with Rumlow was worse than death. But he swallowed it back. There were more immediate problems to deal with.

A bullet  _shattered_ the computer screen beside him with a sharp _pop,_ and Rumlow hunched forward, making himself a smaller target, trusting his men to cover him. His fingers moved across the keyboard in a blur as his eyes scanned the screen, knowing any second he could take a bullet to the back of his head. But the helicarriers _had_ to go up, weather that idiot technician pressed the button or he did.

The heat of a bullet seared just past his cheekbone, and Rumlow's breath hitch in his chest just as he slammed the last key. A confirmation flashed across the screen, and a deep rumble shook the entire complex. Brock's mouth curled up into a vicious smirk, his heart slamming in his chest, as he whipped up his gun to shoot a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the head.

_The bay doors were opening._

_The helicarriers were going up. And there was nothing Steve could do to stop it._

-.-

They were running out of time.

Three helicarriers were airborne. Two were already converted but it wasn't enough, not if they couldn't get the third. They had ten minutes. _Ten minutes_ until millions of people were gunned down. _Ten minutes_ to win or loose, and Sam Wilson was _still_ optimistic.

"Y'know, you're a lot heavier than you look." He breathed, almost smirking as Steve got his feet under him, his arms aching from dragging the heavier man's weight from one helicarrier to the other.

Steve returned the glance, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half smile. Things didn't look good for them- for _anyone-_ but having Sam by his side made Steve feel like _just maybe_ they weren't done for yet. "I had a big breakfast." He quipped back, and Sam's lips parted, a smart remark already forming in the back of his mouth when a blur of metal and black leather _crashed_ into Steve. Sam jerked in alarm, his words dying in his throat as he was forced to watch as his friend was thrown _-helpless-_ from the carrier.

_"Steve!"_

The scream torn from his lips, and he bolted towards the edge, his mind dimly registering that the Winter Soldier -the man Steve loved, and the man who was going to kill them both- was only _feet_ away. But he couldn't focus on him. All his mind could focus on was the thought of Steve plummeting thousands of feet to his death, hitting the ground and laying there, snapped, and lifeless; _like a broken doll._ He couldn't loose Steve the way he lost Rylie.

Sam was already diving over the edge, his eyes scanning desperately for Steve when he felt the metal plates in his wings _crunch_ together, and he was suddenly jerked to a stop, and hauled backwards back onto the helicarrier. The Soldier had a hold of his wing, wrenching him backwards over his head, and Sam whipped his wings from the man's grip, the air beneath them snapping him upwards like a parachute. He was working on pure instinct, and he didn't have a second to spare. It was Steve, or Barnes, and he _couldn't_ loose Steve. Sam flipped his two pistols out of his belt, firing at the assassin, not _wanting_ to hurt him, but _needing_ too. Subconsciously, he tried to aim for a non-fatality. 

_He shouldn't have._

The Asset flipped easily over the spray of bullets, dodging flawlessly, his movements like a twisted dance. The guns clicked in Sam's hands _-empty-_ and he flung them aside, folding his wings close to his body and letting himself dive, head-first, over the edge. Logic told him Steve would have hit the ground already, but hope spurred him to throw himself after him anyways. He had to try- He couldn't give up without trying.

But he was wrenched back a second time.

Some kind of light cable lodged into his right wing, twisting the metal plates and dragging him back up onto the deck, Sam's stomach dropping out from under him. _He was gonna be too late- He was gonna hit the ground-_ But in a moment, Sam needed to worry about more than _Steve_ hitting the ground. The Asset dragged him by the cable, physically _ripping_ the wing from his back, and kicking Sam over the edge. 

The air tore at his body, ripping at his clothing, and at the one, useless wing dragging behind him. He couldn't panic. He _had_ to land safely. If Steve was still alive, he was gonna need him. He couldn't die. He _couldn't._ Sam smacked the release, the second wing detaching and whipping away with a heavy _crack._ The ground race up to meet him. _Too fast. Too close. This was gonna hurt._

As quickly as his hand could find the cord, Sam deployed his parachute, the thick fabric momentarily dragging him upward before his feet hit the ground with jarring force. Any harder would have broken both his legs, but as it was, Sam stumbled to his feet, chest heaving, eyes scanning the ground for Steve's broken body. "Cap," He rasped into his com, his breath coming in ragged gasps. _"Cap,_ come in. Are you okay?" _Please be alive. Just alive. Anything else I can handle. Just be alive._

 _"Yeah-_ I'm here- I'm still on the helicarrier. Where are you?"

The fearful ache in Sam's chest suddenly melted with relief, his eyes falling close, sweat cooling on his skin. "I'm grounded." He breathed, regret now poisoning his relief. "Suit's down...Sorry Cap..." For just a half breath, Steve's com was silent, as though scrambling, trying to reformulate the plan without such an essential piece. And then it crackled back to life, Steve's voice even, and determined. 

" _Don't worry. I got it."_

-.-

 Steve could have handled _anything._ Anything but _this._ Anything but the man he loved standing between himself, and the lives of millions of people. Because he couldn't choose. He _couldn't_ let millions died, and he _couldn't_ kill Bucky. There _had_ to be another way. _He had to listen. Remember._

"People are gonna die Buck..." He breathed, his voice low, and ragged, pain echoing in his every word. "I can't let that happen.

But the man who wore his lover's face just stared at him, his expression hard, and unyielding. He stood like an immovable barrier between Steve, and the helicarrier console, his face bearing no trace of recognition, or remorse. That day on the bridge, his eyes had flickered with confusion, his mind had churned to try and remember how he knew this man. But something was different now. They'd done something to him, done something to make sure he never broke his mission protocol again. The possibility for recognition was gone, and the Asset existed for one purpose, and _only_ one. Kill Captain America.  

Steve's chest tightened as the stillness held, panic twisting in his gut. Bucky would wait him out if he had too. _Six minutes._ Steve had _six minutes_ until the helicarriers were activated, and Bucky would stand between himself and the console until that time was up if he didn't do _something._ But that meant fighting Bucky- _hurting him_ \- and Steve didn't know if that was something he was capable of. _"Please_ don't make me do this." Steve begged, prying something inside him would shift and change. A moment of clarity, or even indecision. _Please- god please- don't make me hurt him. Don't make me be responsible for loosing him again._

But Bucky didn't move. His eyes didn't flicker with confusion, or recognition, and Steve's stomach dropped sickly. _He had to_. He couldn't make himself kill Bucky, but he _had_ to get him away from the console. Steve felt the fragile, broken, fragments that were left of his heart suddenly  _shatter,_ and he hauled back- and threw his shield. 

-.-

Getting to the council room was Rumlow's primary objective. Romanoff was up there, as well as Pierce, and he needed to kill one and relocate the other. Although his patience with the director was running so thin, Rumlow wasn't sure he could make himself choose who to kill. Pierce had given him nothing but grief from day one. He treated him like a pawn, and ruined the manipulation of Steve that he had carefully plotted for _months_. But at a core level, Rumlow knew he wouldn't turn on the director. He was too deeply ingrained, and he liked the opportunities HYDRA presented him with. No- He had no love for the director, but he would happily put a bullet in Romanoff to keep his position. He breathed his location into his com, pushing open the door at the top of the east stair well and stalking through. 

A blur of motion at the corner of his eye was the only warning Rumlow got.

Sam lunged from behind the door, slamming into him, sending Brock reeling. He tripped forward under the fierce impact, whipping back around only to have the air driven out of his lungs by a knee to his gut. Rumlow doubled over with a ragged grunt. He didn't know who his opponent was, but it didn't matter, he wasn't going to let them get in his way. 

Brock's hands flashed up, grabbing the sides of his adversaries head and cracking his forehead into the bridge of his nose. The man gave a started grunt of pain before Rumlow shoved him back, stepping back a pace, his senses finally catching up to him. The two men sized each other up, realization of who their opponents were slowly sinking in, and Sam felt his chest burn with fury. This was Rumlow. Rumlow who hurt his friend; who trapped Steve in an abusive relationship, hitting him, manipulating him, and _god knows_ what else, for _months._ This was the man who'd tormented Steve physically, and emotionally, making him head shy, and dragging him deeper into depression and isolation. He'd made Steve believe that he deserved to be hurt, he made Steve believe that he loved him, only to break his heart.

If it came down to it; if he had to take him down, Sam didn't think he'd loose any sleep.

Rumlow's stomach twisted with disgust as he found himself facing Steve's companion, Sam Wilson. He'd known from the moment Steve had mentioned him that Rumlow wouldn't like him, that he was going to cause him trouble later on, and his intuition was proving correct. Wilson was _almost_ as much to blame for his loosing Steve as Barnes was, and Rumlow felt a sadistic thrill run up the length of his spine.  "This is gonna hurt," He panted, his breathing uneven, eyes locked on the dark-skinned man as he indulged in the thought of tearing him apart. He was going to ruin _everyone_ who'd had a hand in taking Steve from him. Rumlow stalked forward, easy, and confident, his scarred arms flexing as he stripped off the heavy armored vest. "There are no prisoners with HYDRA. Just order, and order only comes through pain." His mouth turned up in a vicious, crooked smirk, his eyebrows lifting almost mockingly. "You ready for yours?"

Sam's eyes caught on his, for a moment, stunned by disbelief. _Was this guy really that full of shit?_  Sam didn't have time to listen to Rumlow's elitist, self-righteous monologue. He had more important things to do, like helping Steve save the lives of million. His head jerked in a subtle shake, mouth twisting with raw rage. "Man- Shut the hell up" Sam spat.

Rumlow blinked at the dismissal. He'd half expected an attempt at a clever retort. But Sam didn't give a shit about Rumlow, and he wasn't worth the time or energy. _He was fucking_   _invisible._ First Steve, who's will he should have _owned,_ then the Asset, who's respect he _deserved._ And now Wilson, who _should_ have feared him, but dismissed him with little more than a disgusted twist of his mouth. And Brock was sick of it.

Rumlow's expression twisted with rage, and he _lunged._

-.-

_Steve was bleeding out._

He could feel his vision darkened as he struggled towards the console, his heart slamming against his broken ribs, sending white hot shocks of agony through him with each heavy _thud._ He was almost there. If he could get the chip in- if he could align the three helicarriers nothing else would matter. Everyone would be safe, and he wouldn't have to fight. He wouldn't have to hurt Bucky anymore, even at the cost of his own life.

_Crack_

The bullet tore through his flesh, entering below his shoulder and stopping inside his body. He could feel it inside him, _burning,_ mashing into the bloody pulp of his organs, and even Steve's accelerated healing was faltering under the trauma of his injuries. His vision was turning gray. He was- he was dying- _oh god..._ he was really dying... _So that was it. Bucky really was going to kill him after all._ Steve blinked heavily as he slumped against the console, his own, strangled cry of pain dim in his ears, drowned out by the frantic slamming of his own hyper-strained heart. _It could be worse. Steve could have died alone. He could have died at Rumlow's hands._  And suddenly, Steve choked out a tight gasp, panic washing, hot, up his spine, a freezing sweat breaking out on his body, because for the first time in a very _long_ time Steve realized that _he wasn't ready to die._ He- he didn't _want_ to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to save Bucky, and the millions who would be killed by project insight. He wanted to break through whatever sick things they'd had done to Bucky and find the man he loved, _trapped_ inside the cold shell of HYDRA's puppet. _He wasn't ready. He couldn't die- he had to align the hilicarriers- he- he had to-_

The chip clicked into place. Steve's heart nearly stopped with relief, his numb, bloody fingers sliding slickly off the chip to shakily activate his com. "Fire now." He rasped thickly, his tone low, and broken. They were safe. _Millions._ Safe. Making it a million and _two_ would be a miracle Steve didn't think he could hope for. He wanted both he and Bucky to make it out of this alive, but somehow, it didn't seem possible.

Instantly, Maria was on the com, her voice crackling in his ear. Protesting- _of course._ "But Steve-"

 _"Do it now."_ He ordered before she could even finish. Maybe someone else would argue. Maybe any other person would try and find another way, but not Hill. She knew a no-win situation when she saw one, and she wouldn't waste precious time, and jeopardize precious lives to fight with him. 

A second later, the helicarrier lurched almost on its side under the impact of the cannons. 

The first impact threw Steve to the ground, a cry tearing from his lips as pain exploded through his left side. The ship was cracking, breaking apart mid-air as its counterparts fired on it, and it on them. The three helicarriers were taking each other out, exploding into shrapnel, and flame. The carrier was falling from the sky, and all Steve could think, was _where was Bucky?_

Steve blinked, clearing the black blotches from his vision, his head spinning, chest, and stomach burning from the bullet wounds that peppered his body. _Where was Bucky?_ He'd shot him from the belly of the ship, that savage, half smirk twisting his mouth in an expression like none Steve had ever seen on Bucky's face before. But Steve hadn't seen him since that brief glimpse, since turning his back to him and triangulating the ships; ordering Maria to fire. He could be anywhere- 

And suddenly, a ragged scream turned Steve's blood to ice.

_Bucky-_

He dragged himself up, _heaving,_ sick with pain, his vision blurring in front of him as he stared down- _helpless._  Still in the belly of the ship, Bucky lay, trapped, under a massive steel beam. His legs kicked helplessly, a raw scream tearing from his throat as he struggled, clawing, and shoving at the beam with animalistic desperation and terror. Steve could see the whites of his eyes even from where he stood, his expression rent with panic, and a bare, primal fear. And all the sudden, Steve didn't care that Bucky had shot him. He didn't care that his body burned with pain at every movement, and blood oozed from the wounds in his chest, and stomach, and thighs. In truth, _he never had_.

It had _never_ mattered to Steve that Bucky had hurt him. It _never_ changed that he loved him, and intended to save him. But now, all that mattered was that Bucky was scared, and trapped, and in pain. All that mattered was that the ship was going down, and Steve was going to die, but he couldn't-

_Not before saving Bucky._

-.-

Sam _crashed_ through a divider, hitting the ground in a spray splintering glass. His shoulder slammed into the floor, taking the brunt of the impact, his breath leaving him a a gasp. He could hear Rumlow's boots crunching over the broken glass, pacing towards him, cruel, and menacing. But all Sam felt was _anger._ Nothing in him was afraid of Rumlow. He recognized that he was sadistic, and dangerous, that he may outmatch him in skill, _but he wasn't afraid of him._ No, Sam was too _furious_ to be afraid. He _loathed_ him for what he did to Steve. He hated him for twisting, and abusing a man who'd only even wanted his love, and Sam wasn't going to give this manipulative, vicious asshole the satisfaction of his fear. _He didn't deserve it._

The shattered glass pressed oozing cuts into his palms as he braced himself, pushing up with a stifled groan, his body aching. Rumlow's footsteps were drawing closer, perversely unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to drag this out for as long as possible.

Brock drew to a stop, standing over Sam with a twisted, victorious smirk. He was going to enjoy putting him down, especially if he would get to hold it over Steve later. He savored the mental image of the look on Steve's face when he found out he put a bullet through his precious Sam's head. And if all went well, Romanoff would have a neat little hole in her skull too. "You're outta your depth, kid." Rumlow smirked, his voice coming out as a low, pandering growl, his chest heaving as his hand found its way to the gun on his hip.

Sam's weight shifted to his knees, his gaze dragging up, expecting to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun. But the death he _did_ see, was coming towards them _much_ faster.

One of the three helicarriers, smoking, and breaking apart in mid air, was falling towards the building. It was _feet_ away, _seconds_ from shattering the full glass wall and crushing in the entire side of the Triskelion tower. Rumlow may be stronger, but Sam was _definitely_ faster.

Ignoring the pain in his body, Sam suddenly _bolted,_ taking off away from Rumlow at a dead run. Rumlow startled, his victim at his feet one moment, and halfway across the building the next. He could still shoot him from where he stood, but a nagging worry tugged at the pit of Brock's stomach. Wilson was in pretty bad shape. What the _hell_ had possessed him to-

A shadow fell across Rumlow's body, and he whipped around just as the glass wall _exploded_ inward, the sky outside blocked out by a deadly wall of superheated metal. 

Brock wheeled, tearing after Sam, no longer caring if the other man lived or died, no longer thinking of anything but escape. But he wasn't gaining ground. Sam wasn't wavering from his path. He was yelling something indistinguishable into his com and bolting straight towards the opposite glass wall, like he intended to burst clear through it, and if it wasn't for the giant ship tearing at his heels, he would have almost laughed at the sheer _lunacy_ of it. He didn't think he'd _survive_ did he? And then it hit Rumlow like a bucket of lead that if _Sam_ was crazy for thinking he could survive this- so was _he._  

But _no._ He was _stronger_ than him- _better- smarter._ He had only seconds, but it would be enough. He would think of a plan. He would-

A segment of the floor was suddenly crushed under the weight of the helicarrier, pitching Brock forward and he landed with a sick _crunch._  Something shattered in his elbow, but his mind stayed focused. He scrambled forward. He was halfway to his feet, when the floor was torn out from under him. His legs caught, and Rumlow was dragged, _screaming,_ between the ship and the wreckage; like a rat through a meat grinder.

And then there was _pain._

And the smell of burning flesh.

And the _snap_ of breaking bones.

_And then there was nothing._

-.-

The helicarrier couldn't stay up for much longer. One had already crashed into the Triskelion, the other heading for the bank of the Potomac, but _theirs- theirs_ was going straight down. The ship was going into the water, disturbingly reminiscent of the last time Steve had given up his life; the last time he lost everything. But this time it would be different, because even if he died, he was _going_ to save Bucky. He _had_ to. 

The Asset felt the steel structure crushing his ribcage. He could feel it compressing his lungs, straining his heart. His vision was graying at the corners, breath wheezing through his split lips. _His body was dying._ The realization sunk in, disconnected, and dim, but there all the same. He- He was _dying._ Every nerve seared with pain, burning into his mind as terror pounded through his head, clouding his judgment and weakening his body. He didn't remember the last time he'd felt fear. But he _couldn't._ He _couldn't_ die, he hadn't completed his mission- he hadn't- he needed to-

Movement grabbed the Asset's dimming focus, panic _stabbing_ through his chest as he caught a blur of blue kevlar, stained with crimson blood. _The man on the bridge,_ his _mission,_ stumbling towards him with a hand pressed to the sluggishly bleeding wound in his gut. Even injured, even half-dead, he target was coming to kill him. And the Asset was helpless to stop him. He wrenched under the steel beam, terror burning him from the inside out, his body screaming out in protest as the heavy metal bit into his skin, and muscle, dragging at the leather body armor. But it did him little good when he was being crushed to death. It would do him little good when the viciously smooth edge of the vibranium shield split open his skull. His target's knees hit the ground right beside his head, and the Soldier snarled through his teeth, like an injured animal lashing out in pain and fear, one arm clawing helplessly at the ground. 

And suddenly, the weight on his chest eased. 

The heavy metal bit into Steve's palms, his burning muscles straining, and aching, his body _begging_ for rest, but he pushed harder. The beam shifted, lifting _painfully_ slow, inching off of Bucky's body as his metal fingers raked, and clawed for _anything_ to give him purchase. The expression on his face made Steve _sick._ His face was ashen with fear- _god-_ he was so _scared._ He looked like he expected Steve to hurt him- _kill him._ The cold, impassive brutality was gone. Bucky was _terrified,_ and desperate, and his desperation was making him even more dangerous. 

The Asset dragged his wounded body out from under the beam, feeling it _crunch_ back down with deadly force the moment his feet cleared. He stumbled back, heart racing, expression twisted. The Asset knew cruelty. He saw it in himself. He saw it in his handlers. But this- This was a new breed entirely. His mission was dragging him out, _again_ and _again,_ stringing his raw mind along, _tearing_ it open with that face that _burned_ on just the wrong side of familiarity. He could have killed him before, and the Asset knew it. He could have held the choke lock until the life was strangled from his body. He could have cracked open his skull with his shield, or simply left him to die under the crushing weight of the beam, but he kept dragging him back. The Asset knew cruelty, but this didn't line up. Either it was a more vicious cruelty than he'd _ever_ experience, or it was something different entirely. But it _had_ to be- _what else would he ever deserve?_

The ship pitched violently, and Steve staggered, barely keeping his feet, his gaze locked desperately on Bucky's form. He was on his feet. _He was alive_. A gasp of relief tugged from Steve's aching mouth, and he stumbled forward, Bucky's dark, conflicted gaze lifting to his own. "You know me." Steve breathed, his words laced with pain, and desperation. _Begging_ him. _Begging_ him to remember.

The Asset's eyes flickered, before fear _lanced_ through him. He _didn't_ know him. He _couldn't._ They hurt him for knowing him. "No I _DON'T"_ His words pitched into a breaking snarl and he lunged, his swing savage, but misaimed. His fist glanced off of Steve's shield with a ringing _clang,_ sending a jolt of agonizing shock through his body. He staggered back, something snapping, and buckling under his feet, throwing him to the ground like a rag doll. 

 _"Bucky-"_ Steve choked, his voice breaking off as Bucky lurched sickly to his feet, expression tormented. "You've know me you're whole life-" _Please- you've got to remember._

This time, Bucky's aim was viciously accurate, and his metal fist swung back, cashing into Steve's jaw in a brutal backhand, snapping his head back with almost enough force to break his neck. The Asset wrenched away, his breath catching, his chest twisted in an aching knot. Why- why didn't he want to-  He had to kill him. He _had_ to. So why did the mere idea make him sick?

"Your name-" Steve panted raggedly, dragging himself up. "Is James...Buchanan...Barnes..."

 _"SHUT UP!"_ The scream stripped from his throat, fear tearing at him, _ripping_ at the seams of his mind and dragging holes in his programing. He lashed out, hitting Steve blindly, his vision swimming with dark spots. Whether it was from the physical, or mental trauma, he couldn't tell. His knuckles were bruising, Steve's blood seeping between the plates in his metal hand. His heart was racing in his chest. It was going to burst. His lungs were going to give out. _He wanted to scream._ He wanted to let the agonizing pain drown him; let it fill his mouth, and nose, and lungs, wrenching the life from his body, because it hurt too badly for him to handle. He had _never_ hurt like this before, and he couldn't understand its source. Because every time his fist spilt the man's skin, something deep inside him _screamed,_ and _clawed_ in protest, raking at his heart and mind until everything inside him was hanging in tattered, bleeding shreds. He was held together by threads of sinew and programing and nothing else. His mission was tearing him apart without ever touching him, and he couldn't understand-

Steve wrenched the helmet off his head, the air burning with heat as the metal around them twisted and sparked, breaking apart and dropping in pieces through the sky. Any second could see them obliterated, but Steve didn't care. Bucky's expression was twisted with confusion, raw, fear, and a pain that made Steve's heart _ache._ He lifted his eyes to him, and Steve saw, in vicious clarity, the _decades_ of abuse, and torture, and brutality. He saw the shattered pieces of the man he loved struggling to reassemble, only to be wrenched apart by HYDRA's programming. Steve's stomach dropped out from under him, and suddenly he _knew_ he couldn't hurt him anymore, not even to defend himself.

Steve swayed on his feet, barely standing; knowing, and choosing to forget just how easily Bucky could kill him. He wet his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, and he dragged in a steadying breath. "I'm not gonna fight you..." he rasped, his chest aching with desperation, and Steve suddenly acted on what he _prayed_ wouldn't be the last decision he ever made. 

_He dropped the shield._

It plummeted, falling like a stone through a gap in the crumbling belly of the ship, hitting the water hundreds of feet below, and Steve lifted his eyes to Bucky, his expression soft; _pleading._ "You're my friend." There was so much more Steve wanted to say. I _love_ you. I've _always_ loved you, since before I even knew _how._  I've loved you my whole _life...you_ loved _me._  You have to remember- _god-_ you have to know. You have to know that I _love you- I love you- I-_

 _But he couldn't._ It was too much. It was too raw. Bucky was being torn apart at the seams, self-destructing just from even _recognizing_ him. He couldn't handle trying to reconcile the fact that Steve _loved_ him. He couldn't handle trying to wonder if _he_  had really loved _Steve._ So he kept it inside, and let it burn on his tongue, begging that what he'd said would be enough.

The Asset stared, and he suddenly didn't need Steve's words to make him understand. He _saw_ the love in his expression, and suddenly, something in him _shattered._ The Soldier lunged with a tortured, snarling scream. He _slammed_ into Steve, dragging him down, as his spine cracked flat against the ground. His powerful thighs trapped Steve's legs down, his flesh and blood hand pinning his torso flat, feeling the man's heart racing beneath his palm as he dragged his weight forward. _"You're my mission."_ He hissed, all the broken hurt, and confusion, and rage crackling through each word, resonating down Steve's spine.

Steve's breath caught in his lungs, Bucky's face inches from his, his weight solid, and real on top of him. But he didn't move. He stayed frozen, staring up at Bucky, even as he hauled back, his mind snapping.

The plates in the Asset's arm shifted, and adjusted, as he dragged back, and suddenly _cracked_ his fist across Steve's face. The skin split, cheek bone shattering, but the hurt didn't stop. He hit him again- _harder-_ his eyes burning, throat raw, nausea rising in his gut. "You're. My. _Mission."_ He broke out, each word punctuated with a blow, his words cracking into a helpless, choking cry. Steve's bones broke under his knuckles, his hand coming away bloody, the plates warped, and jammed from the sheer force and brutality, and he hauled back once more. His ribs were heaving, dragging at the air in ragged, choked off gulps that twisted, and burned his lungs, stilling the breath in his chest. 

And Steve didn't move.

He stared up at Bucky's tormented expression, his vision blurring, and fading as his eyes swelled nearly shut, his mouth aching as he parted his split, and bloody lips. " _Then finish it._.." He choked softly, his words coming out as a muted rasp. "Cause I'm with you...to the- end of the line- "

Bucky froze, the broken whisper crashing through his head like a bullet.

_To the end of the line-_

Bucky felt the nausea that had stirred in his gut suddenly twist sickly inside him, the color draining from his face, a clammy sweat prickling across his skin. _Who was he?_ Who _was_ he? who- _He knew him-_ His arm lowered, eyes fixed on the man's broken face in horror as something unfamiliar, and horrifying twisted inside him. _He remembered_. He didn't know what- he couldn't place words to it but he _remembered._ It was a feeling- _an imprint_ \- a night sky, grayed by the smoke of a city, the smell cheap cologne, and lips that touched his own as a slender hand grazed his jaw. It was the hazy outline of love. And it was _terrifying._  

He couldn't tear his eyes away, his system locking up- failing- his programing coming crashing down around his head and leaving him with nothing but scraps of pain, and purpose. His target was still looking up at him, his head tipped in a tiny nod; a silent, brokenly desperate encouragement. _You're stronger than them. I know you can break free from this._

_I love you._

_Come back to me._

With an earsplitting _crack,_ one of the massive beams dislodged from the ceiling, plunging towards them. The world stuttered. It skipped like a broken record, and the Asset's mind frozen. He watched in excruciating detail as the end of the beam crashed through the belly of the ship, shattering glass, and dragging strips of twisted metal out with it. The ground beneath them gave, opening up like the mouth of hell, and gravity wrenched at the Asset's body, as he was suddenly torn downwards. His hand moved, instinctively anchoring himself in the wreckage, his weight jerking down on the damaged joint between the metal and his flesh. Pain tore through him as the muscles and sinew _stretched_ and _ripped,_ but he hardly registered it. His eyes were fixed, staring through the ragged hole in mute horror.

And his target- his mission- _Steve-_ fell like a stone. 

He watched as Steve dropped, plummeting through the air, limp, and broken; _helpless,_ and his chest suddenly burst with panic. _He was going to die_. no- not _him- Steve._ His mission. The man he was supposed to kill was going to _die,_ and suddenly the Asset knew nothing but that he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't. He _had_ to live. He had to- He had to save him. He was going to be hurt for this. The Asset wasn't allowed to make calls of his own, and not only _not killing_ his target, but consciously deciding to _save_ him would give his handlers every right in the world to put him down; end his life. _And why wouldn't they?_ What good was a soldier who didn't follow orders? A tool that couldn't function the way it was designed. 

Maybe he had failed his handlers. Maybe he was broken, and useless. But something _deeper,_ something that twisted into the very strands of his DNA _knew_ that he couldn't let him die. 

And so whatever was left of Bucky Barnes, let go, _and fell with Steve._


	9. Inova Alexandria Hospital 48 Hours Post-Incident

Sam glanced over at the hospital bed and felt the knot that had been sitting in his stomach for the past two days tighten. Steve was still laying, limp, and battered on the thin mattress. His eyes were closed, mouth split, and swollen. _Still unresponsive._ He dropped his gaze down, resigning himself to a few more minutes of shut eye. Steve would pull through. The doctors said he would heal, and Sam trusted, not only in them, but in the amazing regenerative abilities Steve possessed. Even beaten nearly to death and half-drowned, Sam knew he would survive. But it wasn't so much his _physical_ health that Sam worried about. 

There was no trace of Barnes, dead or alive. Not even a sighting.

Sam worried how Steve would cope with realizing that Bucky had either died, been retaken by what was left of HYDRA, or slipped away on his own; injured, directionless, and confused. He wasn't sure which was the worst case scenario. One thing was for certain though, knowing Bucky was gone could hurt Steve more than he was capable of handling, and Sam prayed that it wouldn't drag him back down into the torturous, isolating depression that he'd _just_ begun to claw his way out of. Sam let his eyes close, his lips still pressed into a thin line as he tried to relax. He'd raced a helicarrier for god's sake. He'd burst through the glass wall of a freaking tower and nearly taken a run through a set of chopper blade. Steve was in far worse shape, but that didn't negate Sam's need for rest, and recovery. He just needed a little more sleep. In another day or so, he'd be fully recuperated, but until then, he could indulge in a little extra rest. He could afford to-

_"On your left..."_

Sam blinked himself back from the edge of sleep, looking over, almost afraid his ears were playing tricks on him. But Steve's eyes were open. His dry, crack lips were parted, his gaze fixed dimly on Sam, and the tightness in Sam's gut abruptly unwound. One corner of his mouth lifted up into a little smirk, his head tipping in a subtle nod. Steve Rogers. Bed-ridden, half-dead, and _still_ making dryly sarcastic wise-cracks.

"You're never gonna let me live that down are you?" He murmured, rising stiffly from the chair and walking to Steve's bedside, the quip easily covering his raw relief at seeing Steve awake. Steve managed a pained snort, his lips tugging slightly, eyes rolling closed. Sam didn't know how much Steve had in him just now, and if all he could manage was one smart-ass comment, he'd take it. He reached over, resting his hand on Steve's forearm where he knew he wouldn't hurt him, a little smile touching his lips even though Steve's eyes had already fallen closed. "I figured you were too stubborn to die, but I'll admit, there _were_ a few times there I was worried I was wrong..."

Steve hummed thickly, tempted to drop back off. He hurt. He hurt everywhere, and his body still craved rest, but something abruptly wrenched him back from the edge, flooding his battered body with purpose, and urgency that overrode his need for sleep. His swollen, aching eyelids flashed open, his eyes -bleary with pain and dulled from medication- snapping over to Sam.

 _"Bucky-"_ He choked raggedly, and watched Sam's expression falter.

 _God. He'd really hoped he wouldn't have to have this conversation with Steve so soon._ But Steve was stubborn, and feverish with urgency, and Sam knew that refusing him information would only make him worse. He _could_ tell him to forget about it, to go back to sleep, but Steve would never accept that, so Sam reached back, and dragged his chair closer, settling down. "No trace of him." He said quietly, simple, and honest, because he _didn't_ know if Bucky was dead or alive. He didn't know if he was captured, or alone, and offering speculation would do nothing to help Steve. 

Steve's expression shifted, subtle, and unreadable. He blinked sluggishly, his lips parting as Sam's words soaked in to his drug-impeded mind. "So...S.H.I.E.L.D hasn't picked him up anywhere...no one's seen him _at all?"_

Sam pursed his lips, offering a small shake of his head. Steve accepted the response, his eyes lowering to his hands by his side, layered with I.V.'s, the skin around the site bruised, and yellowing. Sam had fallen silent. He looked like he was waiting for Steve to crack- to _break,_ to do _something_  that he would have to bring him back from. But Steve knew something Sam didn't.

_"He's still alive."_

Sam's thoughts stuttered, for a second, not registering Steve's words because they were spoken with such flat certainty that it threw him. He blinked, his mind catching up to his ears. "Steve-" He said uncertainly, his hand sliding gently from his forearm. He _needed_ Steve to accept the possibility that Bucky could be gone. It wasn't a certainty, but police crews were still dragging the river for bodies. Steve had been lucky. They had no guarantee that Bucky had made out quite so well. If Steve _didn't_ consider the possibility, and the police turned up Bucky's dead body from the river bed, it would break him. Sam knew that Bucky's death, one way or another, would crush Steve, but if he prepared himself, he just might be able to recover from it. When it came to Steve, Sam's _only_ goal was getting him through this, and that meant the ugly task of preparing him for the worst fell to him. Steve may not like him for it very much, he might be angry, and it could take him time to see that everything Sam did was for his benefit, but if he could do something- _anything_ to ease Steve's pain, now or later, he would, and false hope only made the pain worse. _"Listen-"_ Sam murmured quietly, one hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose as he heaved a low sigh. "Nothing's turned up on him, so just- keep in mind that-"

 _"No."_ The single word was soft, but forceful; gentle, but filled with solid confidence. Steve looked up at him levelly, his eyes clearing. "Sam- I'm not saying I _think,_ or _hope_ he's alive...I'm not being optimistic...I'm saying... _He's alive._ I _know."_

Sam hesitated, bitting his lip uncertainly, before taking a risk, and entertaining Steve's conviction. "How." He asked, returning Steve's gaze, his expression open to Steve's thoughts, but still guarded by skepticism and logic.

Even just seeing that Sam was willing to discuss the possibility unwound something that had tightened in Steve's gut, and he breathed a low sigh. "He saved me." Steve said softly, his fingers twitching at his side before coming up to brush carefully over his chest. He remembered -just vaguely- sinking through the water, slipping towards death when a hand had curled into the front of his suit, just over his chest. Feeling his fingers anchoring on his chest strap was the last sensation Steve remembered beyond the burning pain as water filled his lungs. Then everything had gone black. He had woke up, only briefly. It hadn't been for long, not long enough to open his eyes, but just long enough to realize his lungs were full of air, and there was coarse sand under his body; just long enough to feel water dripping from the ends of over-long, dark hair, landing with a muted _tap_ against his cheek. He'd been _right_ there. _Inches_ away. _Saving him._ And Steve hadn't even been able to open his eyes. 

But Sam was still cautious to accept it, and Steve knew. He needed proof. "They found me on the bank of the Potomac, right?" He asked quietly, catching a blurred nod out of the corner of his eye, and a little smile touched one corner of his mouth, his eyes flickering over to his friend. "Who do you think dragged me there?" He turned his head to face him now, hand still grazing across his chest, eyes fixed, and warm. " _I was in the water Sam_." He pressed, watching realization dawn in Sam's expression. "I was _dying,_ and _he_ dragged me out. I remember. Sam, _he's not gone_." 

Sam let Steve's words sink in, blinking slowly, before looking back to him, curiosity burning in his gaze. "When you say not gone- you mean not dead, or-"

"Not _gone._ _Bucky's not gone_. He's- He's in there somewhere, Sam. If he wasn't- He would have let me die." Steve watched, his battered chest tightening as Sam's expression slipped from guarded skepticism to gradual acceptance, his tongue sliding out to thoughtfully wet his full lips.

"Alright-" Sam murmured breathlessly, giving a little nod, his eyes lifting as he gently clapped his hand back over his forearm. "I believe you. But Steve-" He pressed hurriedly. "Do everyone- do _me_ a favor, and let yourself heal up a bit before you try finding him. You won't make it real far with as many broken bones as you got right now."

Steve managed a faint smile. In a little while, his perspective would shift, he would grow agitated, and restless. He would _itch_ to go after him, _aching_ for every minute that he failed him by not searching. But for now, just knowing that he was alive was enough to drag him through, just knowing that something inside the monster HYDRA had created _still_ remembered loving him kept Steve alive. And when he could, he'd find him, but for now, he knew Sam was right. He needed to rest.

"How long since they found me?" Steve breathed, his head resting back against the pillow, eyes closing, his expression edged with exhaustion.

"Two days." Sam replied, and Steve nodded shallowly.

"Catch me up." He murmured. "What's all happened."

Sam wet his lips, reaching up to gently scrape Steve's bangs away from his forehead before dropping his hand gently back against his shoulder. "Come on man," He coaxed gently. "Go to sleep. Worry about all that later, okay? A little rest _really_ can't hurt you."

Steve snorted faintly, but his chest warmed at Sam's affection and concern. "I've _been_ sleeping. Tell me what I missed."

Slowly, Sam admitted defeat, his chin dropping to his chest as a smirk tugged at his mouth. "Well..." He started, "There's a lot of collateral. The Triskelion complex was pretty much leveled by the first helicarrier, which I happened to witness _first hand."_ Sam snorted, before shaking his head, almost unable to believe that he'd come out alive. "I was on the thirty fourth floor at the time of impact...Lucky for me Fury and Natasha were taking a pleasure flight nearby in a chopper, so they gave me a lift to the ground after I jumped through a glass wall..."

On the hospital bed, Steve blinked his eyes open, glancing at him sidelong, but Sam continued before he could open his mouth. "Director Pierce is dead. _Another_ dead director shot him. Natasha took a pretty nasty hit, but she's alright-" He pressed quickly, seeing tension beginning to coil in Steve's shoulders, and he soothed it with a gentle rub. "She's _alright_ Steve. She's _fine,_ already out of the hospital which is more than I can say for _you."_  

Steve allowed himself a tight smirk, letting himself let go of his momentary fear for his friend, and he closed his eyes again, allowing Sam's words to wash over him.

"Beyond that, there are a lot of dead and injured on both sides, HYDRA _and_ S.H.I.E.L.D. But a lot of the surviving HYDRA members have been taken into custody, or taken to hospitals under guard depending on their state."

_"Rumlow?"_

The question spilled from Steve's lips before he'd had time to think through whether or not he _really_ wanted to know. If Rumlow was dead, or alive, it shouldn't matter. He was no longer a part of his life- his _heart-_ but whether he accepted it or not, he was _still_ a part of his _mind._ Steve had moved past Rumlow; his emotions had let go of him completely, but his mind, and his thinking had taken a lot more damage that even his heart. His mind still tried to compensate for what had happened, for the hole Brock had left when Steve had ripped him from his life. It instinctively searched for him, trying to force him back into the hole even as it healed over, and no longer needed Rumlow to fill it.  

This was another conversation Sam would have hoped would have held for later. But regardless, he did what he only hoped would be the least painful route: He told him the flat, honest truth.

"He's gone Steve." Sam said gently, always cautious around the subject of Rumlow, always knowing that some parts of Steve were still very raw and vulnerable regarding him. "He was on the same floor as me when the helicarrier took out the tower... _I_ almost didn't get out of there...I heard it drag him under. He's dead." _I'm sorry_ almost slipped from Sam's lips, and a part of him wondered if he should have let it. He'd known others besides Steve who'd come through abusive relationships. He knew that, especially in the beginning, no matter how much it hurt, and how much you told yourself that you hated them, _something_ in you still missed them, still wished that they would have loved you. He didn't know where Steve was emotionally, but hearing Rumlow was dead couldn't be easy on him. There would be no relief. Not this soon. Not when it was all so raw. 

Steve's heart faltered in his chest, and for a moment, he was grateful for the hospital drugs that dulled his reactions and emotions, because suddenly, he didn't know what to feel. It was a twisted, coiling knot in his heart, strings of pain, and rage, and sorrow tangling together with guilt, and a kind of sick satisfaction. It _hurt,_ and Steve was tempted to up his dose of morphine just to block it all out. He wasn't strong enough to process this right now. His eyes fell closed, a low groan slipping feebly from his lips, and he felt Sam's energy shift, concern suddenly resonating from everything in him.

"Steve?" He breathed, his hand trailing from his shoulder to Steve's hand, curling into it, warm, and comforting. "Hey- hey- come on...come on man," Sam murmured, rubbing the back of Steve's knuckles, shying carefully away from the I.V.'s. He could see the conflict in Steve's expression, and he could see he was still too battered to handle this right now. "Steve- look at me, alright? He pressed, giving a shallow nod. "Okay? Look at me."

Reluctantly, Steve opened his eyes, the conflict on his face tearing gashed in his soul, the struggle reflected in his eyes. He couldn't take this just now. He was too hurt, too exhausted. He needed time to rest and process, and only then could he come to terms with how he felt about Brock's death. A part of him wanted to be happy about it, while another part was _disgusted_ that he would even consider the emotion. A man was _dead._ A life extinguished. What kind of _monster_ was he to be _happy_ about that? Or even just _relieved?_ But something inside rationalized at least of _piece_ of the satisfaction that turned his stomach. Rumlow was gone, and he couldn't hurt him anymore. He was gone. Steve was finally safe.  

But he was _gone._

Steve didn't know what he'd expected to feel, but it wasn't _this._ It was too tangled, too conflicted. He was a living knot of emotion and his mind couldn't handle it. Not right now. He was still too raw from seeing Bucky, from having him slip away from him. The scabs over the wounds Rumlow had left on his heart were still soft, and fragile, and knowing he was dead peeled at the edges, his heart and mind prickling with a dull, throbbing pain that he couldn't justify. He couldn't cope-

"Steve." Sam pressed again, putting gentle pressure on his hand, anchoring him, drawing him back to the present. "Steve- I know you don't want to, but you've _got_ to let go of this for a while. You need to rest. You need to _heal_ okay, Cap?" Steve blinked sluggishly, looking up at Sam with an expression rent with conflict, and Sam eased closer, looking him evenly in the eyes. "I can get a doctor. Have them give you something to help you rest, would y'let me do that?"

Steve couldn't imagine sleeping. He couldn't imagine that his mind wouldn't be haunted with images of Bucky trying to kill him, of Rumlow being dragged under the crushing mass of super-heated metal, his bones snapping and skin searing off in strips. He couldn't imagine that he wouldn't see Bucky, alone, and injured, needing help but lashing out like a wounded animal; hiding in abandoned buildings, and killing anyone who came too close. But what did it matter? Those bloody, visceral images haunted his mind _anyways._ What difference did it make if he was awake or asleep?

He nodded shallowly, more for Sam's benefit than his.

_What did it matter?_

Sam gave his hand one last reassuring squeeze before slipping out to find one of the hospital staff, leaving Steve dazed, and detached, his emotions bitting, and bruising at his tattered heart. A moment later, a nurse came in and adjusted his medication, and Steve felt himself slipping back under. The images blurred into a drugged haze, and as the last of his senses began to fade, he heard Sam quietly humming, and felt his warm hand over his.

-.-

Steve's recovery took longer that the five days before he was released from the hospital. In five days, his body was already well on its way to healing, but everything inside him, his mind, his emotions, stayed knotted; tangled in vicious, twisting coils. Sam was honestly scared for him, and Steve couldn't bare the silence of his apartment, so -by an unspoken, mutual agreement- Steve temporarily moved in. 

For the first week or more after leaving the hospital, Steve coped miraculously well. He exercised when he could, cooked dinner with Sam every night, and tried to sort through the emotional baggage that had built up on his chest for the past several months. He opened up to Sam, told him everything that had happened on the helicarrier, and falteringly delved in to a little of he and Bucky's history together. Whenever it got to be too painful, Sam always seemed to know. Steve's expression would twist, his words breaking as he stammered out half-formed sentences, and Sam would just hold up a hand, silencing him gently. Without a word, he would sink back on the couch, always leaving Steve the choice of how close he wanted to be, and put something on the T.V until Steve relaxed. They spent a lot of time like this, and before long, Sam had become an irreplaceable part of Steve's life. A friend like he hadn't had since before the ice. Nat also kept in touch, but had problems of her own to work through. For someone who lived in the shadows, being fully exposed was a nightmare, and Nat was laying low, reconstructing identities and alibis, although it didn't prevent her from dropping by unannounced every few afternoons with her laptop under her arm and a box of half-cold pizza balanced on the flat of her hand. 

Steve's first relapse occurred a week and a half after being released from the hospital. 

The news that Rumlow was alive shook Steve to his core. He had _just_ begun to reconcile the knotted mess inside him. He'd _just_ begun to accept that he was relieved that he was finally safe from Rumlow even though it hurt that he was gone. He was _finally_ beginning to be okay with where he was. And then Rumlow tore that small shred of progress apart. _Rumlow was alive._ He had been found in the wreckage of the Triskelion tower, and had been taken, all but dead to a hospital. For weeks he was a John Doe, a no one, with no identification, and no longer _any_ recognizable features. He'd been treated, brought back from the brink of death, and put in a medically induced coma. Fourteen days later, he'd come alert just long enough to slur a few muttered words between hideously scarred lips before slipping under. Among the words; _his name._  

Brock Rumlow was back from the dead, and Steve couldn't handle it.

He _broke._ All the hurt, anger, and blind terror boiling over until his heart was racing and his lungs refused to function. His eyes burned and spilled over with tears as raw, violent sobs tore from the shell of his ribcage, stripping his throat raw, and forcing him to dry-heave. His stomach twisted into knots, his body lurching with each sob. His throat closed, choking off his oxygen as he tried to control the reflexive wretch. It took the combined effort of both Sam and Natasha to bring Steve back, and even then, it took _hours._ It was an _agonizing_ process. Even when the vicious sobs choked off to bitter, gasping whimpers, even when the tears had dried, leaving his cheeks taunt, and eyes bloodshot, Steve just stared blankly ahead, his expression drawn, and tormented. Sam consoled him that Rumlow couldn't come after him. He couldn't hurt him anymore, not when he was taking any food through an I.V. and getting almost daily skin grafts and organ transplants. Natasha's method of comfort was more direct. She implemented extra security around Sam's home, and around Steve's apartment for whenever he returned. She weaved a network of subtle, non-invasive measures to tip Sam and Steve off if anything were to go wrong. Steve knew what Sam said was true, and that Natasha's security wasn't _really_ necessary, but it was comforting none the less.

Recovery from the first relapse took longer than _anyone_ expected. Steve wasn't himself for months, all though every day brought some tiny new improvement. Natasha proudly shared with Sam the first weak attempt at humor Steve managed to murmur to her in passing the one day. Sam felt a tug of relief when Steve rejoin him on their morning jogs, and when he ate voluntarily for the first time in well over a week. _Slowly,_ the little things got bigger, and though his small network of friends could tell that the knowledge about Rumlow still sat on his chest, they could see him trying to function around it. Steve was recovering in tiny measures at a time. Every positive, healthy decision he managed was a step towards overcoming the damage Rumlow had done to him, and the trauma of have Bucky returned only to be wrenched away only days later. 

In three months, Steve moved back into his own apartment, although he still stayed with Sam one night a week without fail.

In three months and seventeen days, his official search for Bucky began. 

-.-

Steve dragged himself back into his dark apartment, head lowered, eyes nearly shut. He and Sam had been searching for six months. It had been a total of nine since he'd seen Bucky last, and they were no closer to finding him then they had been the day they started. 

Steve was still recovering, although now, he no longer looked for an excuse to put himself in danger, half hoping that mistake, or accident would end his life. His behavior was risky, but no longer outright suicidal. He had something to keep him going now, something _real_ this time. He had friends, he had a purpose, and it was the hope of saving the man he loved that got him out of bed on a bad morning rather than the image of that crooked smile, with a thin, white scar through the upper lip. Now, Steve went full _weeks_ without Brock so much as crossing his mind, as opposed to the _minutes_ of peace he used to get in between invasive thoughts and fears about the man who had done so much to hurt him; _the man who was still alive._ Bucky was a different story entirely. Bucky had become the white noise in his ears, the background chatter in his mind. He was _always_ present in his thoughts, drifting in and out of the shadows; a constant, hovering memory. But unlike Rumlow, who's vicious smirk and cruel, drawling words had scared his mind, Steve didn't try to chase Bucky's memory away. He kept it close, reliving every detail of his face as he'd seen it last, replaying the moment that he'd _dared_ to hope he'd seen a flash of horrified recognition in his eyes. The Winter Soldier didn't remember him, but _Bucky_ did, and his best friend - _his love-_ was still inside him somewhere. _He remembered._ He _had_ to remember.

Kicking off his shoes by the door, Steve stumbled to the refrigerator, rubbing his full hand up and across the side of his face, uttering a low moan. His hand fell from his face, dropping like a stone to the handle of the refrigerator door, tugging it open with a muted _pop._ Cold air prickled over his face, and the light pooling across his skin in the darkness as Steve stared blindly into the nearly empty space, feeling his stomach sink with dull disappointment. The days were getting longer again. The loneliness was growing worse, and Steve didn't like the way the familiar knot of hopelessness and depression was twisting inside him. _He'd come so far._ He'd been recovering _so_ well, and Steve didn't want to let himself slip back into the dark, lonely place in which he'd been trapped. Sam had said that the depression might come in waves.

For _months_ now, he'd done well. He'd stayed focused on his task, but also on connecting with Sam, and Natasha, and a handful of other casual acquaintances. He'd maintained healthy eating, and sleeping schedules, and had -for a long stretch- felt better than he had in a _very_ long time. But he could feel himself slipping. He could feel his progress faltering and beginning to roll backwards. _Low times_ , Sam had called them. But Sam got low times too, even after all these years, Sam _still_ hit low times, and if anything gave Steve hope that he didn't have to stay there, it was watching Sam push through them. They were _going_ to happen, it was how you chose to manage them that determined how long you stayed there. 

But at the moment, Steve didn't feel like fighting it. He let his heart sink like lead in his chest, and his eyes glaze, unseeing as he pieced mechanically through the few sparse items in the fridge. For just a while, Steve couldn't make himself focus. He couldn't make anything feel relevant or even make anything feel like it had any point. He pushed the door open a fraction of an inch forward, and the light glinted off of cold metal in the corner of Steve's vision. 

He jolted, adrenaline dumping through his body, his mind suddenly snapping out of the haze as his heart surged into his throat. He knew before his eyes had even adjusted. 

_Bucky_

Steve's breath froze in his chest, his mind crashing to a vicious halt, and suddenly there was only one thought in his mind. _He's here._

He could just see his outline against the kitchen wall, rigid, and guarded, his chin lowered. _But his dark eyes were fixed on Steve_. The light from the still gaping refrigerator glinted dully off of his metal arm, mostly concealed by the tattered sleeve of a ragged hoodie. His face was gaunt, and drawn, and Steve could see a hunger twisted _deep_ in his soul. But it wasn't food that Bucky was starved for. He couldn't place the expression on his face, and a wave of prickling heat washed up his spine. 

Steve couldn't breath. His lung refused to fill even as a prickle ran through his oxygen deprived head, his heart slamming franticly against his ribcage. The seconds ticked by. Silence. _Stillness._ His lungs filled, Steve dragging in a shuddering breath that crackled through the silent room like electricity. He shifted slightly, and the soldier's body coil with tension. _"Bucky?"_ He whispered, hardly daring to break the oppressive quiet hanging between them, half-afraid that speaking would shatter the illusion, and Bucky would vanish.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the more he saw, the more he felt the disquiet in his mind grown. At the single, weighted word, Bucky's expression falter, and suddenly hardened into a mask, and he slowly shifted away from the wall, sinuous, and smooth, his movements laced with ill-intent. Steve's heart stopped, a shudder running his entire body as his stomach abruptly twisted with equal parts desperation and _horror_ as Bucky moved towards him, his gaze never leaving Steve. He couldn't see Bucky's expression clearly enough to know for sure, to know whether or not the malice that rolled of him was in his eyes, or just the conditioned movements of his body; whether or not Bucky _really_ intended to hurt him. He needed to get him talking- or see him- even just _see_ him. "Buck-" He tried again, his chin lowering non-threateningly, his hands twitching by his side. "Can I turn on the light? The switch is just on the wall behind me...I'll go slow..." He promised, one hand drifting back and the man in the shadows suddenly stiffened. 

_"Don't move."_

His voice shocked into Steve's bones, freezing him in place. His heart faltered, his throat tightened treacherously. His voice was so quiet...so _soft..._ That was one thing that hadn't changed. It had always been smooth, and deep, and gentle, even as boys, even whispered into his ear on those intimate nights shared just between the two of them. Now, it met his ears again, only this time, it was edged with cruelty...or maybe _fear..._  Steve froze, not wanting to give Bucky any excuse to leave, to get spooked, or lash out. It occurred to Steve in a splash of bitter reality that this _may_ be his only chance. He'd gone nine months on _nothing,_ and now Bucky was _here._ And if he said one wrong thing, he'd be gone again, _this time for good._

"Okay..." Steve breathed, licking his lips feverishly. "Okay- I won't move...I won't move... _I trust you Buck..."_

Bucky visibly flinched, and Steve's stomach twisted with fear. _God no- He didn't mean to push too hard- god- please don't let him leave-_ But the soldier's tightened expression slowly eased, his eyes still dark with uncertainty, but he slipped forward, carefully; _guarded._ Steve held his breath. He was almost within arms reach. Almost close enough to touch, but he kept his hands at his sides despite the way his palms burned, and his arms ached to drag him into a hug. He wanted to touch him, tenderly, _everywhere,_ refamilliarize himself with Bucky's body, learn the curve of his muscles and bones all over again and lay soft kisses over his face, and lips, and neck. He wanted to treat Bucky with the first gentleness and love he may have felt since falling from the train almost eighty years ago. He wanted to show him that he love him- He wanted Bucky to know that he'd _never stopped,_ and that he _still_ loved him now, no matter _anything_ else, no matter the metal arm, or what he'd done in the past, or what HYDRA had done _to_ him. He _loved_ him. _He loved him_ , and he wanted to show Bucky in every way he could. But right now, he had only one choice: _He had to stay still._

Steve let Bucky approach him, hardly able to breath. His heart stuttered in his chest as the dim light pooled over Bucky's figure, showing the dirty, ill-fitted clothing that clung to his underfed frame. His cheeks were sunken, eyes hollow. His hair was a little shorter than he remembered, looking like nine months of growth had recently been roughly hacked off with a knife. His lips were split, and cracked, _but he was still the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen._ His eyes were _achingly_ blue, his jawline strong, and cheekbones pronounced. Hunger had pulled his skin taunt, but his muscle were still defined; visible even under the hanging, tattered clothing. The metal plate over the knuckles of his left hand were still warped, and jammed, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if Bucky's bionic arm could register pain. 

Bucky moved towards the man in front of him, still unmoving, still trusting, letting him close enough to kill him and not so much as searching for a weapon. _This was Steve._ He knew it. Not just his mission, not just his target, but _Steve,_ someone he _knew,_ somehow. It had taken months, but Bucky had started recovering the pieces that HYDRA had torn from him, and Steve kept surfacing in every blurred, distorted memory. Blond hair, eyes like the sky, and a smile that more often reflected pain than happiness. He remembered- he- he _thought-_ Now he had to be sure, and there was only one person who he could go to. _The one person who had ever refused to hurt him._

"You're Steve..." Bucky breathed, his gaze dragging up his body, drinking in the details, memorizing the way he looked. He wasn't sure it was right. He had memories of someone he was _certain_ he knew, but he was smaller, sick, and fragile. There were also snippets of war, of a man who looked like the Steve in front of him, but somehow was one in the same with the frail young man in his memory. But the timelines were crossed. He didn't remember in order, but this was _him._ One way or another- this was _Steve._

Steve's lungs froze as his name slipped from Bucky's lips, still low, and quiet, spilling shivers down Steve's spine. He nodded breathlessly, mouth too dry to speak. Bucky watched him, expression guarded before cautiously returning the nod, his eyes momentarily dropping away. And the the brief second that might have been confused with trust was stripped away, and fear dragged Bucky's gaze back to him, watching Steve for any sign of movement. _God-_ he was so scared. Steve could see it in every line of his face, in the way his eyes darted, and burned, tearing into him, ready to kill to avoid being hurt. Something in him had changed since Steve had seen him last. Buried under all the layers of aggression and deadly force had been a submissiveness that even _Steve_ had been able to see. He existed to be used. He lived to be ordered, and broken, and hurt.

_But not any more._

There was a _rage_ in Bucky now, a rage that flared against the people who had twisted, and tormented him for years, who'd pulled his strings and made him dance. He wouldn't be a puppet anymore. He wouldn't be submissive, and Bucky would kill anyone who got close enough to his battered, bleeding heart to harm him. But that's _exactly_ what Steve needed to touch if he wanted to heal him. His only fear was that Bucky wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Steve held the stillness with absolute devotion, even as Bucky circled completely behind him, disappearing from his line of view. He could slip a knife between his ribs, sever his spine with one silenced bullet, but Steve kept his eyes forward. He didn't know whether or not Bucky would hurt him, but he hoped his trust would sooth his fear. If Bucky wasn't afraid, he was less likely to be aggressive. Steve _needed_ him calm. He needed him relaxed, he- he just _needed_ him. 

"Bucky," He breathed, the single word barely above a whisper. _Don't startle. Don't bolt._ Bucky slipped back into his line of sight, having come full circle around him, staring at him like he couldn't fathom Steve. Like he'd never seen anything like him, or he _had,_ and he couldn't remember _where._ Steve licked his lips, the dark glint in Bucky's eyes conveying that he'd registered that he'd spoken. Steve dared to press a little further. "I've been looking for you for months..." He murmured, watching him through his lashes, seeing the man's eyes flicker with uncertainty as he spoke. "I was scared something had happened, that someone else had gotten to you first but- I couldn't just give up on you. Not after just getting you back... _not after you saved me_..."

Bucky's prowling pacing faltered, his gaze darting up to Steve, eyes flashing dangerously, but Steve pressed tentatively. 

"That was _you..."_ He said softly. A statement. Not a question. _"You_ saved my life even though you were supposed to kill _me...Why?"_

The Asset- _Bucky-_ Whoever he was now froze, his stomach tightening, a prickle running up the length of his spine. He'd disobeyed a direct order from his handlers. He'd refused to kill a man because- Steve questions burned in his mind. _Why?_ It had been nine months, and he _still_ wasn't sure he had an answer. Because even if the fragments he was remembering _were_ real, they couldn't be _true._ That would mean he was _more._ That he had a life, a _past,_ and that _someone_ had once been capable of loving a monster like him. _Steve._ He remembered almost nothing about him, but hadn't he been willing to die just so he wouldn't have to hurt him? Hadn't he scarified himself and let the Soldier all but kill him to save millions of innocent live, and one life he _should have_ extinguished?

"I-" The man's voice faltered, his frozen exterior cracking as he dropped his chin uncertainly, his gaze flicking. He wanted to say he didn't know, but somehow, he couldn't force the words past his lips, because Steve was _looking_ at him, his soft blue eyes laced with desperation, and hurt, and suddenly, Bucky wasn't so sure he _didn't._ But he could say that. Not yet, he needed time, he needed to remember more, to be sure, because the Asset had never felt beyond submission, and fear, and directionless rage, but _now...now_ something else twisted at his heart, no longer ripping, and clawing, but pressing, slowly cornering him into facing it. He _remembered_ Steve. But he wasn't ready. 

_"I'm not theirs."_

Steve's heart missed a beat a faint smile tugging incredulously at his lips. _God- he wasn't too far gone._ He could _still_ save him- And suddenly, the faint smile faltered, and cracked as Steve realized the expression on Bucky's face. His gaze was boring into him, eyes black with the rage that Steve had seen churning inside him. It was oozing out of him like congealed blood from an infected wound; toxic, and poisoned. He didn't belong to HYDRA, not anymore. And he was no longer scared of them. He was _angry,_ and it _terrified_ Steve.  

Bucky's eyes darkened, his hands curling into fists as the warped plates on his left knuckles grounds, and _cracked_ sickly something sparking deep inside the metal inner workings. " _They don't control me-_ They don't _own_ me-" He hissed thickly, and Steve felt a twist of alarm rising in his chest as Bucky paced towards him, _murder_ in his eyes. He took an unconscious, stumbling step backwards, the twist of alarm suddenly morphing into a thrashing coil of panic. He'd searched for Bucky for _months,_ and now, he was going to kill him in his own home in a bought of blind, misdirected rage. Steve's back connected solidly with the wall, trapping him off as Bucky came at him; slow, and menacing, his gaze black with mad fury. He looked disconnected, disassociated, no longer seeing _Steve,_ just the hatred that had been planted in his gut the moment he'd stared up at his own face, and a name he didn't know on an impersonal exhibit, and realized what had been taken from him. Since then, he'd been hiding, and running, and _killing._ And it _hurt._ It hurt more than he could handle and he needed it to stop. He thought killing the scattered remains of HYDRA would sooth the pain, but each death made it worse. Each cracked skull and sliced throat made the thing in his heart flinch, killing a part of the tiny spark he'd been trying to nurse. But he couldn't stop. HYDRA had to pay

"Buck- Bucky look at me." Steve whispered, Bucky closing in closer, a sheen of sick, cold sweat breaking out across his gaunt face, his hands trembling at his sides, eyes glassy. _"Please..."_ Steve breathed, "Bucky- You're right- _you're right_ \- you're _not_ theirs- You're _you._ You're my _friend,_ you're-"

Steve jerked in alarm as Bucky suddenly slammed forward, his hands crashing into the wall on either side of his head, trapping him in place, his chest heaving, glassy eyes suddenly shattering with panic. 

 _"I_ SAVED YOU-" Bucky broke out, the rage suddenly fracturing, splintering into a thousands shards of hurt, and confusion, and fear, his expression twisting with pain. _"I_ save you- You were suppose to die but I- I _saved_ you...I... _I_ did that...They.. _.don't_ own me...I'm not..." He faltered, his voice softening, and cracking, his gaze boring desperately into Steve. He was shaking, teetering just between rage and remembrance, half way to snapping, and killing Steve, and halfway to realizing that his life didn't belong to someone else. _He_ chose. _He_ chose to save Steve even when he'd been ordered to kill him, and the conflict was tearing him apart. 

Steve stood against the wall, Bucky's face inches from his, his mouth frozen open, and breathless. He hadn't moved, not since Bucky had trapped him against the wall, close in on all side but not touching, his hands planted beside his head, jaw locked, close enough to see the ragged, long stubble on his face. Even in the darkness he could see every detail, every old scar and new cut, every pore, and streak of dirt. He could see the pink in his cracked lips that he'd pinned over for _years._ He could see the length of his lashes that even now brushed his dirty, gaunt cheeks with each flutter of his lids. Steve could see in his eyes the torment, and uncertainty, and wanted nothing more than to sooth it away. But any wrong word could tip Bucky over the edge.

Steve tipped his chin in a tiny nod, almost as though to warn Bucky that he was going to speak, almost as though to assure him ahead of time that he was with Bucky, that he _understood._ That he _believed_ him. "I know..." He breathed carefully, watching Bucky's attention suddenly come into sharp focus, the fear that he might lash out again suddenly resurfacing inside of him. "I know...I know Buck..." He murmured, watching Bucky's eyes flicker with uncertainty and conflict before softening slightly, and Steve felt his heart tug in his chest. _He was coming down, the aggression was fading._ Steve wet his mouth, his chest heaving despite himself. His throat was dry, and scratchy, but he forced the words out anyways. "You made that decision on your own, just like when you came back here...Nobody made that choice _for_ you Buck..." he breathed, but he didn't want his words to stew in Bucky's mind. He needed to keep him engaged, keep him in the present. "Why'd you come back?" Steve pressed tentatively still unmoving, still just watching with guarded hope.  

Bucky's hands twitched against the wall beside his head, his eyes unfocusing slightly as his chin dropped, momentarily lost. Like...like he wasn't sure...like he wasn't certain how to answer Steve without hurting himself. He parted his rough lips, his tongue resting just behind his teeth, his fingers slipping a quarter inch down the wall. "I...I _know_ you..." He breathed carefully, not _quite_ looking at Steve, but Steve still knew that any movement would only provoke fear, and aggression. _He couldn't touch._

Steve gave another tiny nod, just enough for Bucky to acknowledge his assurance. Steve inhaled shakily, hope rushing through his veins, words forming on his tongue, but he abruptly choked them back, Bucky continuing softly. 

"You're Steve...I _know_ that but- I don't know _who_ you are...I _remember_ you from before but...it's wrong.. _.it's not you_..." For a moment, something darkened in his storm gray eyes, a suspicion- a fear that he'd been tricked. Steve could see the uncertainty edging towards the threat of violence, and he eased forward, just an inch, close enough to feel Bucky's breath on his lips. 

"No- no, you're right...You're right... _its okay_..." He soothed gently, Bucky's gaze snapping up, now laced with suspicion, and his hands dropped away from the wall, falling silently back to his sides. Steve pressed on, mouth dry, desperate. "I didn't always look like this. I was _smaller..._ I was really thin, and sick...You used to pull me outta fights all the time, scrape what was left of me up off the ally floor and take me back to our place to patch me up. We use'ta cram ourselves into this one little bed at night and you'd always complain that I was shivering so bad it shook the bed, but you've always give me your blanket anyways even when I said I didn't need it. _You looked out for me Buck..._ You saw something in me before _anyone else_ did. Back when everyone was just counting down the days till I died, _you_ were always planning some kind of future for us _...That's_ what you remember _isn't it?"_ He pushed carefully, following Bucky as he eased back. He looked startled, and conflicted, nausea tracing the set of his mouth, like the patchy, incomplete memories made his stomach turn, but Steve was _too_ close. Bucky remembered _something,_ he just had to coax it out.

Bucky felt himself pulling away, but his body was moving without his consent. Steve's words stirred an ache in his bones, and hooked a metal barb into his heart that twisted and ripped at the fragile, broken thing as his mind assaulted him with distorted images of a bone thin wrist wiping across spilt lips and coming away streaked with scarlet. Grainy pictures flitted through his skull, fragments stitched together with black thread. A glass bottle of medicine shattered on the floor. Coarse blankets tangled at the foot of a narrow bed, a threadbare shirt rucked up over fragile, bird-bone ribs. A circular bruise on a pale white throat in the impression of a mouth Bucky _knew_ had been his own. Steve had been cautious not to mention their history together. That was too volatile, too _raw,_ but Bucky remembered anyways. 

_A laugh, too deep, for the tiny body it came from, muffled into a kiss against his mouth._

Bucky lurched away like he'd been burned, one moment only feet from Steve, and in the blink of an eye almost through the door. He had to go. He couldn't- He couldn't face this, the thought- the _notion_ that he had had a life, and someone who loved him- the thought that he could be standing in the same room as him, and being _nothing_ like the man he must _really_ want. 

Steve startled, his blood running cold. 

_He'd pushed him. He'd pushed Bucky too hard._

_And now he was going to loose him forever._

"Wait!" Steve broke out desperately, suddenly bolting after him, sweat breaking out all over his body. Bucky's hand was on the doorknob, seconds away from slipping out of his life forever. _"Wait!"_ Steve pleaded, dragging to a stop, and watched, his breath freezing in his lungs, as Bucky's grip faltered on the knob. He glanced back, eyes laced with hurt, body coiled with tension. Steve swallowed, feeling a suddenly shiver run up the length of his spine. _Bucky was leaving_. His expression left no room for a change of heart. All Steve could do, was hope it wasn't for good. 

"I- I have something for you..." He breathed, the man's expression faltering, his hand slipping away from the door. Hurriedly, Steve slipped one hand under the collar of his shirt, pulling a sturdy chain from around his neck, two thin, metal plates clinking softly together. He lifted them from over his head, a soft huff slipping from his parted lips as he held them out, the chain gripped in his hand, tags dangling. "They're yours...Your old dog tags..." He said quietly, breathless, and shaky. He never thought he'd take them off, never thought he'd been without them, _warm_ against his chest, Bucky's name always resting right over his heart. But if he had to give them away, he would _only_ relinquish them to Bucky. "Wh- when we were fighting together in the war-" He stammered to continue, Bucky watching him in guarded silence. "We traded tags so that- so that if something happened...we'd always have _something_ left of each other...Mine are gone now...You were wearing them when you- _When I lost you,_ but I kept yours...to remember you...You should have them back now..." Steve's voice broke off into a whisper, his heart tightening as Bucky stared, unmoving. The tags glinted dully in the sparse light, swaying slightly from Steve's trembling hand.

And then, Bucky moved.

He slowly reached out, watching Steve for any trace of movement as his flesh and blood fingers curled carefully around the tags. Once Steve felt the heavy pressure of his hand, he released the chain, letting it coil over the top of Bucky's closed fist.

He couldn't breath.. He felt like a kid again, wracked by an asthma attack, his arrhythmic heart beating out of time. His mouth felt dry, and cottony, his tongue too big for the space, and he watched with a lance of aching loss as Bucky drew back. "They have your name on them-" He blurted recklessly, his heart catching sickly, Buck's eyes momentarily dropping to the thin metal plates. "In- In case you can't remember... _Please keep them_..." He begged. If nothing else, Bucky deserved to know his name. He wasn't a _thing._ He wasn't a _tool_ to be used, and twisted, and stored. He was a human being, and he deserved the dignity of a name. 

Bucky held the stillness for a second longer before taking the chain in both hands, metal hissing softly against metal as he lifted it over his head. The tags fell, clicking quietly against the material of his ragged hoodie, and resting against the curve of his muscular chest like they belonged there. Steve wanted Bucky to be able to carry _his_ name with him, like _he_ had carried Bucky's for so long. But he couldn't give that to him, so he let himself be satisfied with just this: With just knowing that Bucky would always have something to remind him that he was _more_ than what HYDRA had told him he was. 

_And with that, Bucky was gone._

Steve almost didn't see him leave. In the blink of an eye, like an uncertain shadow, Bucky disappeared, carrying Steve's memory in his mind, and his own name against his chest. 

Steve didn't pray much. He used to pray only to _beg_ God that Bucky's death had been a painless one. Now he had a different petition, a different plea. That Bucky would come back to him, because this- this brief cluster of seconds filled with silence, and aggression, and pain _...It wasn't enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up, it's been a pretty nuts week. But I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments, it really helps to keep me motivated. :)


	10. Rogers Residence 100 Hours

_Nineteen days later, Steve's prayer was answered._

The morning after Bucky had appeared in his apartment, he'd called the search to a crashing halt, baffling Sam, and Natasha. They had grown used to Steve only resting as long as necessary before resuming his search; always pressing, always desperate. But now, _no one_ was to look for him. No more scouting, no more following leads. The last thing Steve wanted was for Bucky to feel like a hunted animal. He'd shown a willingness to come back on his own once before, and although it killed him to sit back and do nothing, Steve wanted to give him the freedom to choose. And so he waited.

The days trickled by into a full week, and then two, and Steve's hope was beginning to burn out. His chest felt hollow, and empty, his mind caught in a constant haze of restlessness and apathy. Nothing mattered but Bucky. He knew the mindset wasn't healthy, but he couldn't help it. The low period had hit at just the wrong time, and Steve's priorities had taken a vicious blow. He no longer cared about eating, or sleeping. He sometimes forgot to shower for days, and couldn't always bring himself to answer the phone. 

Sam wouldn't stand for it.

He _knew_ Steve could do better, although he sympathized with his trauma. Steve couldn't prevent the times when his depression would crash over him again like a wave, but he _could_ control how he managed it. Sam could see the danger that Steve couldn't; that he would slip back into the same destructive, co-dependant behaviors that left him trapped in a abusive relationship in the past. He _needed_ to get his feet under him if he could _ever_ hope to maintain healthy relationships again. 

So Sam went back to work. It was a never-ending, uphill battle. Steve would make some small measure of progress, be _almost_ managing on his own again, and then he'd take another hit, and Sam would be back to pushing him. At times like this, Steve didn't _want_ to be pushed, but Sam couldn't abide letting him self destruct, so he kept pushing. He forced Steve through his discomfort, trying to break through his shell of disconnected apathy. At times, Steve tried to block him out, but Sam was persistent. And gradually, his persistence payed off. 

Steve came back around, only a tiny bit at first, and then gradually a little more. He apologized to Sam frequently for trying to freeze him out, but the only form of apology that was acceptable to Sam was effort. Steve could talk hollow words until his mouth bled, but Sam could accept that he was genuine _only_ when he saw Steve trying. He knew Steve couldn't just waltz out of his depression on Sam's say so, but he _could_ fight, and that was all Sam could ask of him. Eventually, the apathy began to blur, and fade, and Steve _wanted_ to try getting better again. He took his friends words to heart. He _needed_ to get better. He needed to get better for _himself_ first, and then, he needed to get better for _Bucky._ Bucky would need to heal, and Steve _had_ to be able to help him in the same way Sam was helping Steve. He would need support, and stability, and that was something Steve couldn't offer if he had none himself. So he _worked,_ and _pushed,_ and focused on healing himself.

He had almost begun to wonder if Bucky was going to be gone for good when his world was once again wrenched to a halt.

Nineteen days after Bucky's first appearance, he came back. 

Again, it was in the late evening, Steve having just returned for the day, only to find Bucky shifting in the shadows of his dark living room. He was just as tense and guarded as before, still unable to vocalized why he'd come back, but Steve didn't care. _He was here._ He could see him even just _once_ more. Even if Bucky was coiled with tension and aggression born of fear and isolation, he was _here._ He was here, and Steve could be reassured that he was still alive even one more time. Bucky spoke only a few, low words, and even then only to answer Steve's careful questions before slipping away again. Just as suddenly as the first time, he was gone, and Steve was alone again.

His third visit was only a week from the first, and although there was no discernable difference in his behavior, Steve felt his chest tighten with hope.

From then on, Bucky's appearances grew more frequent, but never predictable. It was always dark, but the exact time or day was never specific. Sometime _weeks_ past. Once, he materialized two nights in a row. But Steve could never fathom any sort of pattern. He just had to wait, and trust that Bucky would come back. He never spoke much. Sometimes, Steve couldn't coax out a single word, but it didn't matter. _He got to see him_. Steve took to leaving a plate of food on the table for Bucky whenever he knew his day would take him late into the evening. The plates remain uneaten until the night Steve walked into his apartment to find Bucky sitting at the table, eyes fixed on the food; staring, but not touching, and with an ache of realization, it hit him that Bucky hadn't believed he was allowed. Steve pressed that he left the food out _specifically_ for him, and that he _wanted_ Bucky to have it. It was _his,_ whether Steve was there to give him permission or not. 

From then on, the plates were always empty.

Between the times when Bucky would reemerge, Steve was tempted to slip back into blind apathy towards _anything_ but seeing Bucky again. A part of him wanted to drift through his life in a dim haze; letting himself come alive _only_ when he could see the man he loved. But Sam's caution stuck in his head. Everything Sam did was in love, but his warning had been stern, and _deadly_ serious. If Steve didn't shake the habits he'd developed through his relationship with Rumlow, _any_ potential with Bucky would devolve into a co-dependency that had the possibility of morphing into something just as damaging as what Steve had been through before. So Steve worked constantly to shed the apathetic fog. He continued to focus on recovering. He relearned self-care, and tried to reestablish the self-worth that Rumlow had hacked down _again,_ and _again_. Steve trained himself that he was worth the love he received from his friends, that he was allowed to love himself, and that he didn't have to think of himself as dirty, and used. _That_ was the hardest to overcome. He could understand that he wasn't stupid, or worthless, and that he deserved to be treated with gentleness, and respect. But how could he _ever_ feel unbroken? How could he ever feel clean when he could still feel Rumlow's hands and mouth on him on his lowest days? How could he _ever_ feel like anything other than a used, debauched _thing_ when he couldn't scour the things Rumlow had done to him from his mind. _It wasn't his fault._ He'd begun to accept that. But he _couldn't_ accept that he wasn't used up, and dirty. Not yet. 

-.-

 Steve stepped through his apartment door, his chest tightening with anticipation as it unconsciously did every time he stepped through his door. Not _every_ time, but _any_ time, Bucky could be sitting, quietly in his home, _waiting for him._ His breath stilled anxiously in his chest as he turned the corner to the kitchen- and let it out with a low _huff_ of relief.

Bucky sat at his kitchen table, silent in the darkness, the plate Steve had left on the table not only empty, but _washed,_ and now drying in the dish drainer. It was an unexpected gesture, but Steve forced himself not to read into it. 

"Hey Buck..." He greeted with a soft smile, casually walking past him to set his things on the counter regardless of how much he wanted to stand there and stare at him; drinking in his form, memorizing his face and body. He never got over the shock of seeing him again, never got tired of _looking_ at Bucky, but he found that he reacted better when Steve didn't treat the situation with such gravity. The less phased Steve seemed to be, the more relaxed Bucky became. He reached over, absently flipping on the kitchen light as he sorted through the bags of groceries he'd brought home with him, listening to Bucky's soft, even breathing behind him as he worked. Bucky's presence had also help him take care of himself better. He kept the fridge better stocked with good, healthy food so that he _always_ had something to offer Bucky when he slipped in. And by extension, Steve's eating habits grew more consistent and wholesome. 

"Did you like the meatloaf?" He asked, his voice soothing, and quiet, prompting Bucky with the direct question. He still didn't speak any more than the first day he'd come, and Steve couldn't help but feel discouraged, but at least the aggression was fading. Steve very seldom feared from his safety anymore at Bucky's hands. 

Bucky glanced up at Steve, the other man still absently sorting through his groceries, back turned; _always trusting._ "Good..." He murmured softly, dropping his gaze away as Steve turned. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mouth lift into a smile, and something tugged at his fluttering, healing heart. 

Steve nodded, a warm, affectionate smile lingering on his mouth. "Good." Steve said gently. "I'd uh- I'd hoped you might come by..." He tried cautiously. "Meat loaf used to be a favorite of yours so I'd hoped that maybe- maybe you'd get to try it again." He kept Bucky in the corner of his gaze, watching his reaction carefully. Memories were met with one of two reactions. Silence, or aggression. If it set well, Bucky absorbed it, and filed it away, not mentioning it further. If it set badly, he lashed out like the first night. But the spurts of violence were growing less frequent, and Bucky was more and more often meeting Steve's cautious prompts with thoughtful silence. 

This time, Steve was rewarded with a tiny nod. 

It wasn't a nod of agreement. More understanding, or acknowledgement. Bucky carefully folded his hands on the table in front of him, trying to sort the information, cautiously pressing at the raw point in his mind to see if it would stir any memories...He'd had favorite foods in the past...Meatloaf...maybe others...Bucky closed his eyes. He couldn't _quite_ remember anything other than eating tasteless military rations, or taking his food intravenously. But sometime in the distant past he'd _enjoyed_ eating. It had been more than a necessary step of preparation. He tried to imagine the taste in his mouth, envision the scene that went with it, but nothing stirred, and Bucky slowly reopened his eyes. 

Steve had frozen while Bucky's eyes were closed. The oddest thing could spook him, and Steve didn't want to be one place when Bucky closed his eyes, and another when he opened them. Now Bucky's gaze was open, fixed dimly on the wall, and Steve eased forward moving to rest his weight against the table only a foot or two from Bucky. He didn't touch him, _he never did,_ but he wanted to be close, and Bucky was growing to not mind. Closer now, in the full light of the kitchen, Steve let himself drink Bucky in. The haggard, sunken lines of his face had softened slightly, a few good meals having done him well. His eyes were a little brighter, and though his lips were still rough, and chapped, the splits in them had healed. Bucky had exchanged the hoodie and the tattered remains of his kevlar tactical pants for a pair of jeans a size or two to big for him, cinched around his sunken stomach with a chord, and a faded t-shirt and jacket. The clothing look like it had _probably_ been removed from a dumpster, but the wrinkles were stiff, like it had been washed recently and laid out to air dry. Steve liked being able to deduce little signs of self care. Washing his clothing, cutting off the extra length of his hair; it all helped assure Steve that Bucky wasn't just self destructing when he was alone. He was still ragged, and dirty, and his stubble had grown long, and wiry, but he had _some_ measure of care for his body and few possessions, and it sparked a little reassurance deep in his chest.

But at the moment, the reassurance faltered. Bucky looked drawn, and distance, and Steve worried when Bucky was disengaged like this. There was too much potential for something to go terribly wrong.  "You alright?" He murmured, his heart pounding despite himself. His heart rate always elevated when Bucky was here. Even after ten or more appearances, his blood still raced at the sight on him. He couldn't ever get used to it, not after thinking he was dead for so many years. 

Bucky dragged in a breath, his eyes slowly lifting along Steve's figure as he slowly eased to his feet, slipping to the other side of the room; distancing himself. But his motions were free of panic, and fear. "I'm... _functional_..." He managed, and Steve felt his chest tighten with pity. He spoke about his body as though it were a _machine._  

"Not asking if you're _physically_ okay, Buck. I'm asking if you're _feeling_ okay. Are you... _upset_...scared? Are you feeling alright?"

Again, Bucky faltered, his feet dragging to a stop. Why did Steve care? _How_ could he care? It didn't make sense. But Steve was slowly winning Bucky's loyalty, and trust, and something programed deep into his body felt obligated to answer, whether he _wanted_ to or not. "I'm confused." Bucky said tightly, a little aggitation scratching at his voice, but it didn't bloom into the deadly aggression and violence that Steve so dreaded. 

Steve nodded cautiously, staying standing against the table for the time being, allowing Bucky the choice of his space. Bucky didn't usually admit to emotions, but _now-_ now, he just might. "Okay," Steve murmured encouragingly. "Talk to me. Maybe I can help..."

Bucky wet his mouth, glancing back at him uncertainly before turning away again. "I think...I _think_ I'm remembering things but...you never said anything about them- I thought- Something so big- I thought you would have- _It must be wrong."_

"No, no, no-" Steve breathed, his heart stuttering in his chest, breath catching in his throat. Bucky _couldn't_ discredit what he was remembering. If he did that, he might never let himself recover. Steve eased forward carefully, just a step, his tongue sliding out to damped his flushed, pink lips. "Can you tell me about it?" He coaxed. "I'd know...I can tell you if its real, okay? Alright, Buck? You can trust me... _I promise I won't lie to you..."_

Bucky's head turned, his eyes flickering, before dropping uncertainly, his chin touching against the gaunt hollow of his neck. He couldn't look at him. If he were honest with himself, he was _afraid;_ afraid of what Steve might do if he even _suggested_ that he thought he could actually love something as _vile_ as Bucky. _He could lose him-_ lose something that maybe he should never have been privileged to have in the first place. He _deserved_ to be alone for all the things he'd done. He _deserved_ death, but Steve had plucked that away from him. Now he had this- this- _something_ with a man he _almost_ knew. He had a moment of safety, he had a moment where he could _nearly_ feel like he was wanted. _But he didn't deserve it._ Still the memories burned under his skin, demanding validation; the deep soft laugh, the kiss, the reckless passionate slid of skin on skin. Steve's face's blooming into a smile, his eyes dancing with light as he looked over, before dropping away, his blush spreading all down his boney chest. He'd been looking at _him-_ or- who he used to be. Bucky didn't deserve that now, and he was afraid Steve would be _repulsed_ at even the memory.

"Forget it." He murmured, cutting off the feeling, shutting it out. He didn't want to loose this tiny privilege that he had by wanting _more._ Who was he to be greedy when he already had more than he deserved?

Steve faltered, his expression falling. "Buck-" He breathed, making sure he could hear his footfalls as he cautiously approached him. "I _want_ you to tell me, okay? It's not a problem. I want to help...come on...You can talk to me... _I'm your friend."_

_There it was again._

Bucky almost flinched. _Every time_ , every fucking time Steve spoke of them it was just that: _I'm you're friend_ , but that wasn't what Bucky remembered. He had more memories than he'd let on to Steve. He had memories of knowing Steve, of _loving_ him. He had patchy recollection of a relationship, a mutual love that was more than a one sided adoration. But every time Steve referred to them it was simply, _you're my friend_. He could _feel_ the pressure building in his head, making his skull throb and his body ache. His mind was clawing for answers but he was too afraid of what he'd find. That maybe Steve had love him once, but that was gone now. _He couldn't love him._  Steve moved carefully towards him, and Bucky _cracked._

He whipped around, eyes flashing as his right hand suddenly seized Steve's wrist in a crushing grip, skin clapping against skin.

Steve jerk in shock, almost wrenching back before stopping dead, his heart stilling for a full beat, his mouth frozen open in an aborted cry of alarm. _Bucky was touching him._ His hand was curled around his wrist, gripping with a dull, buzzing pain, and Steve felt his mind tumbling over the shock, _reeling_ to keep pace with what was happening. Bucky was _touching_ him. The last time he had touched him had been on the helicarrier _months_ ago. Since then, he'd kept his distance, staying withdrawn; not touching, not letting _Steve_ close enough to touch _him._ Steve's eyes, huge with shock dragged up Bucky's body, coming to rest of his face, and his stomach twisted sickly. 

Bucky's expression was tormented, his eyes livid with pain and fear, his fingers curling tighter around Steve's wrist as his jaw locked painfully. _"Stop-"_ He gritted out, something cracking in his tone. "Stop _saying_ that-"

His words punched through Steve's heart like a rusty shiv. _"Buck-"_ The name fell from Steve's lips in a ragged gasp, his chest tightening; aching, the bitting words ripping at the healing wounds on Steve's heart. "Buck- I'm-"

"You _said_ you wouldn't _lie."_ Bucky accused, his tone snapping, and bitter, but more hurt than angry. His grip tightened feverishly and Steve felt his skin bruising, the bones grinding together as his knees nearly buckled from the pain.

"I'm not-" Steve managed, trying to keep his breathing level, trying not to pull or move, for fear that one twist would snap his wrist. He didn't think Bucky was consciously _trying_ to hurt him, but his mind was disconnecting again, and the raw strength and power of his body was playing itself out on Steve without Bucky being _truly_ conscious of it. _He had no concept that he was hurting him._ Steve stifled a gasp as his wrist popped. _One._ Two more and it would snap. His knees trembled sickly, turning to rubber underneath him. "Not- I- I'm not lying, Buck- I'm- I'm tell you the truth, I know you may not remember, or believe me but we _are_ friends-" He choked out, his opposite hand moving unconsciously to grip Bucky's wrist, trying to relieve the pressure. "We're-"

 _"Stop it!"_ Bucky snapped, a note of panic in his voice, because the more Steve said they'd been _friends,_ the more Bucky doubted that they'd been _lovers;_ the more he questioned what little sanity he had. Steve had avoided any mention of their history in hopes of relieving any undue stress, in hopes that Bucky could gradually come to the idea on his own; slowly, and comfortably. But that wasn't the case at all. Almost from the moment he'd started recovering his memories Bucky had been haunted by distorted images of the lost love he _thought_ they'd shared, but he had nothing to confirm its truth, and it tore at his heart like a claw. And then there was Steve; obstinately refusing to touch the subject, thinking he was helping, and all the while feeding the frantic panic building in Bucky's gut. And now, it had grown too much for him to stand. "Stop- saying we _are_ friends-  _were_ friends- _everything,_ just _STOP!"_ Bucky shouted, wrenching Steve close, his left hand coming up to grip into his jaw. 

An unexpected gasp of pain escaped Steve, and Bucky's heart turned to lead. 

He froze, horror sinking in a knot in his gut as he stared at Steve; eyes closed, face tight with pain, and abruptly, his grip loosened. He dragged back the panic and desperation, cramming it back down, stuffing it, his hand loosening around his aching, bruising wrist, touch growing delicate on his face. _He'd hurt him._ Bucky felt nausea twisting in his gut, his mind slowly becoming aware of his body, of the way his own fingers ached from nearly breaking Steve's wrist. It wasn't the first time he'd disconnected like that. It was a reflex from when his body was a tool, and nothing else. In times of stress, he blocked certain sensed, _pain_ among them. He hadn't felt how hard he was gripping the thin bones. He'd had no connection to his senses to make him realize the damage he was doing. _He really was a monster wasn't he?_

 _"Sorry-"_ Bucky gasped, abruptly releasing his wrist, his metal fingers sliding from his jaw as he hurriedly turned, making for the door. _He wouldn't be back. Not if he hurt Steve._ He wasn't allowed this tiny measure of happiness if there was a chance he would destroy it. 

"Bucky," Steve's eyes flashed open, hand flashing out to catch the back of his jacket in a desperately curling fist. "Wait- wait, no. _It's okay_ , it's alright...don't go...Don't go Bucky-"

Bucky faltered, his stomach still tight, _sick_ at the thought of what he'd done. He'd hurt Steve. _Again._ But Steve's grip was firm on the back of his jacket, his eyes, a little wet, fixed on him desperately. His left hand hung by his side, mottled red, and already blooming in shades of purple, but not broken. He was staring at him, open, and honest; _pleading,_ and Bucky's feet dragged to a stop.

Steve swallowed hard, still feeling Bucky's metal finger tips pressing into his jaw, still feeling the burning imprint of the first touch he'd received from him in months; painful, but not malicious. An accident. _A mistake_. "Don't go..." He repeated carefully, gently trying to draw him back, Bucky following in two faltering steps. "Don't go...talk to me Buck...why do you want me to stop?" Steve asked, his words soft, and gentle. "Why don't you want to hear that we're friends? I- I thought you might have remembered..."

Bucky let Steve take him a pace or two back into the kitchen, his hands shaking slightly, fingers aching with pain. He felt nauseas, and guilt-ridden, his stomach turning every time he registered the pain in his hand, knowing it couldn't scratch the pain he'd dealt to the only person who didn't hurt him. "I _do..."_ He rasped carefully, his heart slamming against his ribs, knowing that the minute he vocalized what he _thought_ he knew, Steve would hate him. At why wouldn't he? Suggesting he could actually  _love_ him? But he couldn't stand not knowing for even a moment longer.

"I _remember_ knowing you..." He breathed raggedly, torn between wanting to drink Steve in, and being unable to face him. "But it was- I- I thought it was _more-_ I thought-" His voice caught, breaking off in a strangled croak as his courage crackled out with a hiss, like water over an ember, and he hunched his shoulders forward, waiting for Steve to put the pieces together; waiting for the inevitable wave of revulsion and disgust.

Steve faltered, his grip losing its strength, fingers merely tangled in the back of his jacket as he stared at him, shock catching at his mind. Bucky couldn't be saying what he thought he was. But Steve had underestimated the sheer _cacophony_ that was the return of Bucky's memories. They didn't return neatly, or in order of time or intensity. He didn't remember a gradual progression of his life, or the gentle transition from friends to lovers. His memories resurfaced in chipped blocks, and fragmented pieces; random, and unorganized. He didn't remember a little bit at a time, slowly rebuilding a base of what he knew. He remembered everything at once, but it was like a jigsaw puzzle that he had to reassemble, broken, and disjointed, but all there. He remembered being lovers the same as he remembered being friends, but he hadn't yet fit all the pieces together. He was missing large chunks still, and it was making him second guess his sanity. 

His hand slipped from Bucky's jacket, falling numbly to his side. "You- remember us being _...more?"_ He dared to venture, barely able to filter the words up from his stunned, frozen lungs, the sentence coming out in a breathless choke. 

Bucky's head jerked away, his body unconsciously shying from Steve, shoulders hunched as though to ward off a blow. _"I don't know-"_ He snapped tightly, his muscles tensing in panic as he waited for the fallout. "I thought- _I was wrong._ Forget it." Bucky felt the sick feeling in his stomach spreading through the rest of his body, his neck breaking out in cold sweat, his head pounding, growing dizzy. He felt like he was going to throw up, bile rising in his throat. _"I'm sorry-"_

The broken, cracked apology hit Steve like a ton of bricks. Bucky thought he was angry, for- for assuming they were lovers? For remembering their history together? Steve felt his chest knot with pain. Bucky expected to be hurt for his audacity, but Steve felt only a sudden shock of love that flushed through his body, tightening his throat, his eyes unexpectedly burning. 

"Buck- No, don't- don't apologize its okay- its- its- _god-"_ Steve swallowed back a raw gasp of relief, his chest and stomach suddenly warm. He let out the breath shakily, slowly easing around Bucky's hunched figure, ducking slightly to see past the long strands of dark, unwashed hair. _"Its alright..."_ He whispered, his fingertips tingling as he reached out, and very cautiously grazed his hand across Bucky's elbow. "Its okay...you're right _..._ Bucky _....You're right..."_

Bucky's head snapped up, eyes suddenly flashing with vicious clarity, confusion slicing through him. _"What?"_ He demanded raggedly, Steve's touch faltering on his elbow, before he steeled his resolve, resting his hand fulling against his forearm.

"You're right." He said again, his heart slamming against his ribs, mouth dry. "We _weren't_ just friends...we...I loved you _...still_ love you..." Steve breathed, the last words falling from his lips in a whisper, but Bucky's sharp senses snatched them from the air, dragging them in and pitching them into the turmoil of his mind. And as soon as they registered, the churning, _pounding_ cacophony in his mind went silent for the first time in Bucky's living memory. 

He started slightly, his mind suddenly quite. Still, and silent, save for the tiny little whisper still echoing in his ears. _Still love you._ It couldn't be possible. It wasn't real...but it _was...the_ words had fallen from Steve's soft pink lips; the lips he saw in his memory, pressed to his own. He'd _heard_ them...Steve had loved him once...It was the truth he'd been searching for, but hearing that he loved him _now..._ that he _still_ loved him- it was almost too much. For the first time, his mind was _too_ quite, and Bucky was left with only those three whispered words, and his own, suffocating disbelief. This was usually the time he would bolt. It was too much, and he would leave, isolating himself to deal with the impact of the memories alone. But somehow- this time- he _couldn't._

"I don't understand."

The words were spoken with flat clarity, Bucky trying to reconcile the realization by treating it like impersonal data, but somehow it didn't sit. He couldn't settle it like pure information. He couldn't separate the feeling from the fact. It was too interconnected, too deeply woven together, and Bucky didn't know how to handle it. 

"What do you mean?" Steve pressed, careful, but open, his heart fluttering in his chest. He felt as though he was dangling on the edge of something, a breaking point, a crossroads. How this conversation went determined his and Bucky's _entire_ future. It determined whether or not Bucky could still love him.

Bucky faltered, instinctively trying to draw back but aborting the action mid-motion. He could feel the warmth of Steve's hand through the material of his jacket, the touch light, and kind, and it stirred something deep in his chest that Bucky didn't know still existed. It was aching, and hungry, the thing in his chest _starving_ for Steve's touch, for _any_ touch that didn't end in humiliation, pain, or manipulation. But even with nothing to compare too, Bucky was certain that it was _Steve's_ touch that he wanted _specifically._ It was _his_ touch that he'd been yearning for, that had twisted the gnawing hunger deep inside of him, and the gentle brush to his arm soothed the ache even just _slightly._ He dropped his head, shame curling in the pit of his stomach as Steve's thumb began to brush, reassuring, and gentle in small circles over the fabric. _He didn't deserve this kind of affection._

"Why do you still want me?" He demanded raggedly, his shoulders tensing, voice thick, and trembling with suppressed emotion, and Steve felt the rusty shiv in his chest twist. 

He let out a half breath, stifling the pained sound that rose in his throat. His head jerked in an incredulous shake, expression going slack with hurt. "Bucky..." He breathed, but Bucky's gaze snapped up to him, demanding an answer, and Steve faltered helplessly, his hand stilling on his arm. "Buck, I- You were _always_ the one I wanted...I knew from the time we were kids, you-"

"But _now-"_ Bucky interrupted, the snarl that slipped from his lips reflecting strangled pain, like a wounded animal. 

 _"Now's_ not any different from seventy years ago!" Steve broke out, cutting over the end of his words, his hand curling unconsciously around Bucky's forearm. "None of that matters, _alright?_ Nothing they made you do, or did to you _matters_ to me! I love _you,_ not just who you _used to be_." Steve's voice softened, his words wavering slightly as his grip eased. "I _love_ you..." He breathed, meeting Bucky's conflicted gaze, his lips pressing into a tight, pained line. " _I love you..."_

Bucky's expression cracked, shattering like broken glass as his mind tried to accommodate Steve's words and actions, _somehow_ reconcile them with the monster in his mind. _The killer_. The _thing_ that didn't deserve love. He didn't see how they could co-existed. Steve loved a thing that _couldn't_ be loved. It simply wasn't _possible_ but Steve- His expression was raw, and honest, eyes pleading, mouth twisted into a tight line. Desperation was written on every line of his face. The Asset had been used for interrogations in the past. He'd been conditioned to used brutality to drag out answers, and he was trained to see the truth. What he saw reflected in Steve's face left no room for argument. _He loved him_. And Bucky couldn't begin to understand, but he _had_ to see it was true. 

Steve let the silence hold, let Bucky adjust; _absorb._ He hadn't expected a quick reply, but the longer the silence stretched the more the nervousness in Steve's chest agitated. Because what if it wasn't Bucky who didn't think he deserved love? What if _Bucky_ couldn't love _him?_ He'd _forgotten_ him. _Betrayed_ him. He'd let Rumlow take him in ways that he _never_ should have allowed, that he should have saved. _He'd broken their promise._

Suddenly, Bucky's metal fingers twitched by his side, dragging Steve's attention to the movement, his heart lurching unexpectedly. Bucky lifted his hand; slow, tentative, raising it to Steve's level and cautiously letting the cold metal frame his jaw. Heat washed up Steve's spine, shivers prickling along in its wake as metal touched skin, cold against warm. The touch was delicate, and precise, perfectly calculated as Bucky slowly slid his hand lower, fingers trailing over his jaw, brushing the hollow behind his ear. Steve's eyes felt closed, his hand curling into Bucky's jacket sleeve, heart stuttering in his ribcage. The metal grew warm against his skin, but regardless, Steve shuddered again as Bucky's fingertips trailed down his exposed, vulnerable throat, framing his neck lightly, with his thumb resting just over his jugular vein. It was intimate; _sensual,_ Steve letting out a low, breathy gasp, his eyelids quivering. In a single movement, Bucky could crush his windpipe, snap his neck. His powerful, mechanized hand circled his throat completely, but Steve kept his eyes closed. He let himself trust Bucky. _Put himself in his hands._

The touch trailed, still light, and gentle down to trace the hollow of his throat, grazing his collar bone before dragging back up his neck. His fingertips brushed over his cheekbones, tracing the soft curve of each of Steve's fluttering eyelids, never threatening pressure, or pain. Bucky drank Steve in, his chest in a knot as he stroked over him, touching his face, and neck, and jaw in a way he couldn't remember being taught. No one had _ever_ offered him the gentleness he now offered Steve. _He hadn't known he was capable._ Bucky cautiously traced his hairline, and temples, before his metal fingertips grazed down, brushing over Steve's pink, perfectly soft lips.

Steve parted his lips instinctively, feeling the metal -warmed by his skin- now tracing the set of his mouth. He felt himself uncoiling, felt Bucky's tender touch undoing a part of the damage in his soul. Bucky eased closer, eyes fixed on Steve's mouth, slack, and soft, letting himself slip into the memories that had been too painful to resolve, letting himself feel the things that he'd boxed away and let burn inside of him. 

 _"I remember loving you..."_ Bucky whispered, feeling Steve shiver under his touch, his index finger catching on the soft swell of his lower lip. He stared, mesmerized as Steve leaned into the touch, his ears catching the faint, breathless sigh that slipped from his perfect mouth, and Bucky felt something fit, almost imperceptibly, into place. He didn't know what it was, but _something_ clicked. Something inside the knotted mess of his heart let go, and Bucky eased forward. He could feel Steve's breath on his mouth, feel the warmth of his air on his lips. His fingers trailed to his chin before carefully slipping back down the front of his throat, tracing his adam's apple with just the tip of his finger.

"Bucky-" Steve breathed, eyes still closed, heart racing. Bucky's chest nudged softly against his, Steve still anchoring him close by his elbow. He could almost _feel_ his lips. He could feel his hand resting on his throat, and feel the energy crackling in the air between them. The heavy, charged silence before a lightning strike.  

 Bucky faltered, his hooded eyes lifted as he drank in Steve's face at the intimate proximity. His expression was slack, but there was a little knot of desperation between his brows. _'Erratic heartbeat. Anticipation, or discomfort.'_ "Tell me to stop..." He whispered, his chest tightening as he pushed the words past his lips, and he strangled out the instinct to ease closer. But Steve merely tightened his grip in Bucky's jacket, his opposite hands lifting, anchoring itself in the front of his shirt; bunching the fabric to stabilize himself. 

"Is that what _you_ want?" He breathed, tipping his chin, his forehead almost brushing Bucky's.

Bucky choked back a stiff swallow. He wasn't accustomed to people asking what _he_ wanted. He wasn't used to his opinion mattering. But _Steve_ had asked _him._ And it wasn't. _"No..."_ Bucky murmured carefully, mirroring Steve's movement, his opposite hand slipping up, only Bucky's found its way cautiously to Steve' waist. 

Steve let out a shaky breath, one corner of his mouth managing to lift in a small smile. "Me neither..." Steve whispered, before slowly opening his eyes, lifting his gaze to Bucky's. The other man was staring at him, deep, and level, taking in every line and curve of his face, memorizing the set of his eyes and mouth. "Buck-" Steve said, his voice almost lost in the silence of the room. _"Please..."_

Bucky met Steve's gaze, and felt his heart skip a beat. _He didn't deserve this._ How had it happened that he was allowed to have something so good? He shouldn't be, but Steve's expression was open, and raw, almost _pleading,_ and Bucky saw the same hunger in Steve's eyes that he felt in himself. Steve _ached_ for love, and affection, but not just _anything_ would do. He wanted _Bucky- craved_ him- the way Bucky starved and ached for _Steve._ So Bucky allowed his tortured soul the privilege he couldn't convince himself he deserved. 

He leaned in, _and touched his mouth to Steve's._

The entire world crashed to a full stop. Steve's breath was caught up in his lungs as Bucky's rough, chapped lips just _grazed_ the soft set of his mouth. They caught on his, like calluses on silk, and Steve let a soft, breathy _moan_ slip from deep in his chest, his body instinctively pressing closer. He could feel Bucky's energy thrumming just under his skin, his touch so achingly cautious as his right hand slid up his ribs, before tracing back down the delicate curve of his waist. He shuddered, easing in, and allowing his mouth to fit into the warm sweep of Bucky's, his head shifting to the side. 

He felt like his heart was going to explode. But for the first time in seventy years, he felt like it was a good thing. 

Bucky took Steve's encouragement, his metal hand sliding up to cup the side of Steve's jaw as he leaned in, capturing his mouth in a gentle kiss. He hadn't dared to before, but Steve was soft, and pliable under his hands. His body was warm, and relaxed, and Bucky could sense the ache deep in his bones; the ache that mirrored his own. Now, he let himself kiss Steve fully, no longer just grazing his mouth against his, but really _kissing_ him. He closed his lips over Steve's plush lower lips, and he felt Steve quiver beneath his touch, pressing his chest flush against Bucky's, both fists now bunching the fabric of his shirt. 

Bucky's rough, wiry beard prickled across Steve's skin, scrapping along his mouth and chin as Bucky shifted, turning his head to match Steve's as he deepened the kiss. Steve was getting lightheaded. The rush of intimacy, of _relief,_ was almost too much. He could feel his knees going weak, and his head spinning, and if he wasn't so absolutely _lost_ in the sensation of Bucky's mouth, open, and gentle against his, he might have felt a little sick. But he didn't want it to end. It had been too long. Too long since he'd felt Bucky's mouth against his own, felt his hands -however different they were now- holding his waist and jaw.

Slowly, Bucky broke the kiss. He tipped his chin down, his forehead pressing against Steve's as space formed between their lips, a ragged huff escaping him. "Steve-" He whispered, a tremor buried somewhere deep in the tone, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if Bucky was affected the same way he was. 

His fingers uncurled from Bucky's shirt, one hand moving to reassuringly rub across Bucky's chest, as though to sooth his racing heart. He wanted to answer him, but his lungs still felt frozen, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his heart threatened to tear itself from his chest. The lack of oxygen was making his head spin, and the edges of his vision go gray. Vaguely, he felt Bucky easing closer again, a low moan slipping from his lips as Bucky's beard scraped over his cheekbone, his mouth coming to rest by his ear.

" _You're shaking..."_ Bucky whispered, his voice low, and smooth, and Steve slumped into the touch, his hands gripping into his shirt again to keep himself up. 

_Bucky was here._

_He was here._

_He loved him._

Dimly, Steve realized Bucky was easing him back, guiding his stumbling feet into the living room, the backs of his knees pressing against the couch. _He needed to breath._ Bucky put careful pressure on his chest, pushing him back, Steve's balance betraying him and he dropped back. The soft, suede couch cushioned up around him, his knees giving out gratefully as he sunk back into the plush pillows. But his hands remained anchored in Bucky's shirt, clinging to him, half tugging him down with him. _He couldn't leave. Not yet._  

Bucky lurched slightly, nearly loosing his footing and falling on top of Steve, but he locked his knees, abruptly catching himself on the back of the couch. "Steve..." He said softly, his dark eyes meeting Steve's; wide, and blue. "You _need_ to _breath..."_  Steve stared up at him, blinking sluggishly before his words registered in his mind. And something snapped back in place like a rubber band snapping against skin. Steve dragged in a lungful of air, suddenly reconnecting to the tight burning in his chest. He exhaled shakily, dragging in another breath, and feeling the spinning in his head beginning to slow, the pain in his chest easing. Bucky gave a tiny, approving nod, his hand sliding over Steve's gently working his fingers free of his shirt. "Let go." He instructed, moving to straighten, but Steve caught him again, eyes flashing with a glint of panic.

"Don't leave-" He broke out, but Bucky carefully tugged his hands free, avoiding his wrist which had bloomed into ugly shades of black and purple. 

"I'm coming back." He murmured, his hands squeezing lightly over Steve's before releasing them, and slipping back to the kitchen.

Steve dragged in another steadying breath, his ears straining for any indication that Bucky was slipping out; the click of a lock, the kitchen window opening. But all he heard was the soft _chink_ of glass on glass and the low, bubbling gurgle of the faucet. A moment later, Bucky ghosted back into the living room, a tumbler of water in one hand, his eyes fixed cautiously on Steve's prone figure. Steve offered him a little smile, feeling a hint of warm embarrassment flush through his chest. _The first time he got to kiss Bucky in seventy years, and he'd nearly passed out because he'd forgotten to breath._

"Sorry about that..." Steve said, tipping his chin down as he felt Bucky's weight settling down on the cushion beside his feet. The cold glass touched lightly against his knuckles, and he lifted his gaze, seeing Bucky holding out the glass, his eyes averted. Smiling faintly, Steve took the glass from his loose grip, taking a few swallows, more to accommodate Bucky than anything. He was fine, _really,_ but Bucky was initiating gestures of care, and Steve didn't want to discourage that by rejecting them. He finished about half the contents of the glass before setting it carefully on the end table beside the arm of the couch. "Thank you." He murmured, Bucky still angled away, still not looking at him.

His hand flexed uncertainly in his lap, catching Steve's movement out of the corner of his eyes. "You're alright?" He asked, low, and quite, almost as though he wasn't sure he _wanted_ Steve to hear his expression of concern, and Steve gave a soft snort.

"Yeah- Yeah I'm fine I just-" The little half-smile on Steve's lips faltered, his expression falling as he drank in the sight of Bucky beside him. "It's just been a long time since anyone's treated me like that..."

Cautiously, Bucky lifted his gaze from his lap, looking over at Steve with guarded curiosity. "There were others though- _there must have been_. You're-" _Beautiful._ Bucky swallowed tightly, looking away again, and Steve's gaze instinctively wrenched away as well. 

Steve couldn't bring himself to speak. Not right away. He shifted slightly, lifting himself from the half reclining position, and tucking his left leg under his right, his right dangling off the edge of the cushions so that he half faced Bucky from where he sat. His eyes were fixed on his hands, and suddenly Steve felt his skin crawl, his neck prickling sickly. Because there _had_ been others, _one_ other, and he'd broken him, made him filthy; _not what Bucky deserved..._ After everything Bucky had already been through, he deserved someone _clean,_ and _whole,_ not someone who would have done _anything_ for even the _illusion_ of love, because Bucky's memory had finally grown too painful. He'd _tried_ to forget him, tried to _move on_ , and Steve could _never_ forgive himself for that. 

"There was..." Steve breathed finally, his stomach twisting, his mouth suddenly tasting foul, like blood, and Rumlow's favorite cigarettes. "Just one...but he was nothing like you..."

Bucky let the information sink in, letting it settle in his heart like a stone, and then something shifted out of the tangled mess in his mind. He blinked, his muscles tensing, stomach tightening sickly as disjointed images flashed in front of his eyes, jagged, raw sensation flooding the sensory centers of his mind. _Iron cuffs clapped around his wrists, electricity racing through his body, burning him, scorching his skin until it was black and blistered. A man with dark hair, and a rugged, crooked grin braced in front of him, his dark eyes glinting with sadistic malice._ He could hear his voice echoing in his ears, cruel, and distorted, making bile rise in his throat. _'You should hear the way he moans for me...You should feel the way he shivers, and squirms under my hands when I fuck his pretty little ass so hard he bleeds all over the sheets, crying like a fucking bitch-'_

Bucky _lurched_ to his feet, Steve starling beside him. _"Rumlow..."_ Bucky snarled, his former handlers name bitter on his tongue. Bucky remembered only pieces of his past, but he remembered what he'd promised Rumlow, _'I'll kill you if you hurt him.'_

Adrenaline spiked through Steve at the sound of Rumlow's name, and he felt suddenly nauseas, his stomach plunging sickly. "Buck-" He rasped, a cold sweat prickling across his neck and forehead. "How did you-"

But Bucky was already to the door, only this time, he wasn't slipping out like a silent shadow. He _stalked_ towards the entrance, jaw locked, _murder_ in his eyes. _He was going to kill him._ Wherever he was, he was going to find him, and put a bullet through his skull; add his name to the list of HYDRA agent's he'd killed over the past ten months. He wanted to find him, _unaware,_ asleep in his bed and see his blood staining the white sheet; repay him for _every drop_ of Steve's blood that he'd _ever_ spilled. 

_"Bucky!"_

Bucky stopped dead, Steve's hand grabbing the back of his shirt, jerking him to an abrupt stop, sending his murderous thoughts pitching. For a half second, he was disoriented. His hands were out for blood, and he _almost_ turned on Steve. He whipped around, teeth bared, hand finding the knife at his waist before he was suddenly wrenched back to the present. Steve was staring at him, wide eyed, and desperate; confused. His expression was drawn, mouth froze, open, and breathless and Bucky's hand dropped away from his waist abruptly, the bloodlust draining from his eyes. It wasn't his former handler...it wasn't Rumlow... _it was Steve_...Bucky swallowed back the rage the burnt like acid in the pit of his stomach, the hatred that twisted his mind back into the brutal, impersonal killer he had been. 

"Please don't do this..." Steve breath, his words low, and soft, eyes locked on Bucky. "I _know_ they hurt you. I know _he_ hurt _me,_ but you ca- Buck- You _can't_ keep doing this. You can't keep killing people, _even HYDRA,_ its only hurting you- _its gonna rip you apart._.." Steve's hand slid from Bucky's back to his upper arm, turning him carefully. _"Please_ Bucky..." He begged softly. "Don't keep hurting yourself like this...I promise you I'm not worth it. _..not after everything I did..."_

Bucky's breath hitched in his chest, confusion hitting him like a splash of cold water, shocking his system. "What _you_ did?" He breathed, deep, and guttural, a knot forming between his brow. "Steve- I'm a _killer..._ I've murdered _dozens_ of people- _innocent_ people- I tried to _kill_ you- I _forgot_ you-"

"But none of that was you're fault." Steve countered, his expression suddenly tightening with hurt, and he stepped back feverishly. He dropped his eyes away, shame curling in his gut. "And when you forgot me...it was because someone _forced_ you...No one forced me...I- I _tried-_ _God_ \- Buck- I _tried_ to let you go- I should never have- I- shouldn't have-" Steve felt sick, his words breaking over each other, bile rising in his throat, stomach knotted with guilt. _How could he have tried to move past him?_ How could he think that he could ever _really_ love someone after loosing Bucky. But he was lower than even _that._ He'd just _given_ himself away, and not even for love, _for a distraction_ , an opiate to numb the pain. He'd pawned himself off like a whore and tried to trick himself into believing that it meant something. Steve dragged in a ragged breath. He could feel Bucky's gaze boring into the back of his skull, and his shoulders hunched involuntarily, his arms coming up to instinctively wrap around his chest and arms; shielding himself. But it was in the open now. Bucky deserved so much better than him...but as it was...the best Steve could give him was his honesty, even if it meant he lost him for good. 

 _"I was so alone here..."_ He managed, his voice shaking ever so slightly. "Ever since loosing you- loosing _everyone_ from home- I- I was reckless, and depressed, and I...I wanted to die...but Brock..." Steve's mouth set in a twisted grimace of agony, his head tipping to the side as a shudder of nausea ran up his spine. He swallowed back the knot of sickness rising in his throat, letting out a low huff of air. "I thought I could trust him...I thought _...maybe_ no one could love me, but that _maybe_ I didn't have to be alone either..." Steve felt absolutely ill, Bucky's silence setting his nerves on edge, Rumlow's memory settling over his body like a vapor, turning his skin cold, and clammy.  They had both done so much- so much to make them both think that they didn't deserve love, but the fact remained that everything Bucky had done was involuntary. Steve didn't hold Bucky accountable for the decisions of HYDRA, but he couldn't see how Bucky could _possibly_ absolve him of the decisions of Rumlow. 

"I gave him- everything..." Steve faltered mid-sentence, his stomach plunging. "I gave _everything_ to him- I just- I _whored_ myself out to him for- for a couple hours where I didn't have to be alone? For him to use me like a _toy?_ Buck I- I gave him _everything..._ Things I _never_ should have- Thing that were supposed to be _yours- god- it was supposed to be just you-"_ His voice broke, and suddenly it was as though he could feel Rumlow all the way up inside him all over again; coating the inside of his body, wet, and slick between his legs. A sick shudder ran through him and Steve felt the knot rising in his throat again, his shoulders coiling tighter. He wanted to sob, wanted to get it over with because how could Bucky love him after breaking his trust like that? After giving himself away, and then being _stupid_ enough to hope that he could still be _loved._  

The soft scrap of stubble across the back of his neck nearly made Steve flinch.

He curled forward, a hiss of air escaping from between his teeth, and he felt Bucky tense behind him. For a second, He stood there, silent, shoulder tense, and rolled forward as Bucky hovered just behind him, his breath ghosting across his skin. And then he leaned forward again, slower, more cautious this time, carefully touching his mouth to the back of Steve's neck, one hand brushing over his hip. 

"Did you ask him too?" He whispered, the words carrying to Steve's burning ears, and he shuddered under the gentle touch, his body still coiled with tension. 

"No..." Steve breathed, his heart catching as Bucky's opposite hand rested on his chest, slowly easing him straight, uncurling the stiff roll of his shoulders. His hand took up a circular, massaging rub across his chest, soothing away the tension as he carefully pressed a tender kiss to Steve's flushed skin.

He breathed a low hum, the sensation thrumming through Steve's body as he kissed his neck, slow, and unhurried. " _Not you're fault..."_ He murmured, something familiar tugging deep in his gut, his body following the imprint of memories he couldn't yet recollect; the familiarity of how he used to touch Steve. He body knew what his mind had yet to untangle. Bucky moved instinctively, massaging Steve's chest, kissing up the back of his neck before tipping his head, pressing in to mouth at the soft skin behind his ear. _"Its not your fault..."_ He breathed again, feeling Steve go weak against him as his muscle memory took over, his hands falling into familiar patters of affection and touch. "You didn't want him to..."

"I-" Steve managed to gasp out, his mind stuttering in pleasure, and disbelief as Bucky touched him so gently, with such affection and delicate tenderness. _"I let him..."_ He whispered brokenly, his eyes stinging, remembering giving up, closing his eyes and letting Brock rape him. He hadn't fought him...He was strong enough to snap a man like Rumlow in two and he _hadn't fought him._..he'd just _let_ him take the last thing that he had...

Bucky wasn't good with words, not yet. Something deep in his chest wanted to shatter, take Steve by the face as assure him that just because he hadn't been able to fight him didn't mean it was his fault, didn't mean it was any less rape than if he'd been able to struggle. But Bucky didn't know how to verbalize that. He didn't know how to convince Steve that he hadn't betrayed him, or drag his -then- memory through the dirt.  He didn't know how to tell Steve that if he _ever_ crossed paths with Rumlow he would make him regret ever laying a finger on him, but by Steve's request, he wouldn't kill him. But he _couldn't._ He didn't know how. Bucky's expression was still limited, and stunted, but not non-existent.

He turned Steve slowly, easing him back, his face still tucked into the curve of his neck, brushing, and grazing with his rough, chapped lips. He guided Steve back to the couch, carefully pressing him down, only this time, he allowed himself to follow him. Steve's back hit the cushions with a muted _thump,_ one leg laying along the length of the couch, the other still brushing the floor. Bucky eased over him, slowly fitting himself into the space between Steve's solid figure, and the back of the couch, his shoulder wedged in under Steve's arm, head propped up to look at him. 

Steve felt his heart stutter with shock as Bucky took him down onto the couch, laying him back and settling himself beside him. Bucky's metal fingers slid up over his waist before curling loosely to absently rub his knuckles across his chest. He was staring at him, dark, and level, his eyes fixed on his expression, which was still drawn with guilt, and shame. "Bucky," Steve protested softly, his stomach twisting as the burning in his eyes prickled into moisture, wetting his long, brown lashes. _"Please-_ I know that you might not remember the significance of it yet but- I- I-"

"You thought I was dead..." Bucky breathed, his knuckles stilling on his chest, eyes locking with his. "You thought I was dead. You mourned me, and then you tried to find some kind of happiness...You just found the wrong person..."

Steve's throat tightened, his mouth set in a twisted grimace of pain. "I should have waited for you-"

"You couldn't have known." Bucky said shortly, his words snapping off Steve's guilt-ridden argument and leaving no room for contest. Bucky pinched his lips togethers, his eyes dropping for a moment. The rage towards Rumlow had cooled, but still sat in his gut like a weight.  The more he remembered, the more Bucky pieced together how he might have reacted- before- before being turned into a monster. He would have _wanted_ Steve to be happy, but he was absolutely _sick_ that Rumlow would take a lonely, damaged man, _desperate_ for his love, and hurt him the way he did. 

"I don't care." Bucky said finally, his gaze lifting again, his tone firm, and even. "Anything he did, or made you do- _I don't care._ I _know_ I loved you. I _remember._ What he did to you doesn't change that." He breathed, slowly sliding up a little further, his upper body shifting so that his mouth was level with Steve's.

Steve felt the prickle of his beard across his skin, and let out a shuddering sigh, his lungs aching, eyes stinging with tears. " _I'm dirty..."_ He breathed, forcing the words past the knot in his throat, but Bucky merely brushed his chapped lips gently over Steve's, dragging a low whimper from deep in his chest. _How could Bucky still want him? Didn't he understand? Didn't he know what he'd done? Why was he-_

Bucky closed his mouth over Steve's, his metal fingers trailing from his chest, up his neck to cradle the side of his jaw. He shifted his head, kissing Steve, slow, and deep, feeling the other man shivering under his touch. Bucky's kiss silenced the whimper that tore from his throat, the tears that had been burning his eyes finally spilling in two, thin streams down his cheeks. _His touch was so soft._ The metal hand that had once broken his bones, and spilt his skin caressed his cheek and jaw, grazing delicately over the soft skin as his mouth worked against the gentle curve of his own. _He was more gentle with him than he deserved_. Steve's breath hitched in his chest, his hand coming up to shakily grip at the side of Bucky's neck, holding him close, desperate despite his disbelief. Maybe he was selfish, but even though he knew he didn't deserve the tender affection, he didn't want it to stop. His parted his lips cautiously, Bucky matching the movement as his mouth work against his own, warm, and damp with excess saliva. Steve shuddered, his finger curling into the back of his neck, his two thin trails of tears wetting Bucky's cheeks and beard as he pressed closer, his thumb beginning to rub in comforting circles across Steve's jaw. Steve felt his stomach swoop as Bucky's mouth once again framed his lower lip, Bucky daring to give the soft flesh a gentle suck, his teeth brushing along it before he tugged lightly. Steve's back arched involuntarily, a whine slipping from his lips as Bucky teased the sensitive skin with his teeth with light scrapes and nibbles. 

And then Bucky drew back, and the whine of pleasure cracked into a needy whimper.

"Buck-" Steve whispered, but Bucky grazed his index finger over his mouth, shushing him silently as he stared down at him, drinking in his expression and figure. Steve's mouth and chin where flushed red from Bucky's wiry stubble, the soft skin scrapped raw from the prickly ends. The other man's blush spread from his cheeks, all down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt, and Bucky was suddenly seized by a wild curiosity as to _just how far down_ Steve's blush spread.

But he bit back the thought. This wasn't seventy years ago. They weren't just dumb teenagers getting swept along with their emotions...they were adults, two very _damaged_ men, and Bucky didn't know if Steve could trust him with something like this _ever_ again. _He wasn't sure he trusted himself._ What would happen if he disconnected again? He could hurt Steve, he could shatter his misplaced trust and lose the only thing in his dark fucked up world that mattered. Bucky was unstable. He _knew_ his mind was delicate, and unpredictable, able to be dissociated; _snapped,_ by the tiniest thing. But Steve made him feel like he had a choice. When Bucky was away from him, he doubted he could be anything but a monster. But with Steve, he could almost feel _human._ He could talk to him -if only a little- He could relax, and feel -to a degree- _safe._ When he was with Steve he could remember better; remember being his own person, being someone who could love, and who had someone who loved _him._ But he would trade that humanity in a heartbeat if it meant not hurting Steve. 

And then Steve's hands slid up to cradle his rough jawline, and Bucky felt the knot inside him loosen, and unwind. Steve was looking up at him, wet lashes clinging to his cheeks as he blinked, his pupils blow out, and flushed, wet lips parted desperately. He drew him down, slow, and careful, bringing Bucky's mouth back against his own with a shaky huff of air.  _"I've missed you..."_ He breathed, shifting under Bucky as Bucky tentatively eased his weight further over him, one leg carefully slotting up between Steve's thighs. Most of his body was still held over him, close, but not touching, but Steve still felt a thrill run up his spine, his heart racing at the intimacy. He drew Bucky in, his soft lips grazing his, nuzzling gently against his face. "Missed you _so_ much- _god_ Buck-" He gasped raggedly, feeling Bucky's hesitant touch against his waist, and neck. _"God..._ I thought I'd never see you again, you're- _You're so beautiful_ , you're-"

Bucky closed the kissed, Steve's praise tugging at his heart in a way he didn't quite know how to accept. So he silenced him; gently, _sweetly,_ his left hand cupping his face, his right tenderly exploring his chest and ribs, feeling the smooth curve of his muscles under his shirt. He tried to patch together the fragments of his memories, scrape together the pieces long enough to remember what Steve's body really looked like under his clothing, but it was too broken; too disjointed. His finger tips trailed down Steve's chest, cautiously moving to his waist, slow, and delicate, as though waiting to be reprimanded, but Steve didn't stop him. A shallow moan slipped from the blond's lips, the sound muffled against Bucky's mouth, and he arched into the touch, Bucky's fingers dragging lightly over the front of his jeans. Steve's head was spinning, his mind racing as Bucky slowly caressed him through his clothing, his touch maddeningly light, and Steve found himself squirming needily. He could feel his cock hardening in the front of his pants, blood pounding, hot, around his body, and Steve took a calculated risk. He ran his tongue across the seem of Bucky's lips, startling as he parted them; immediate, and receptive. 

Bucky opened his mouth, letting Steve's tongue dip inside as he pressed deeper, allowing a little more of his weight to rest across Steve's solid frame. He could feel his erection under his palm, and Bucky felt something tug deep in the pit of his stomach. Steve wanted this- wanted _him-_ he really _wanted_ him... He could almost _taste_ Steve's soft, needy whimpers on his lips as his tongue slid tentatively across his. He could feel him quivering with anticipation, and disbelief. His heart was racing, body hot with arousal and Bucky felt a sudden spike of desperation. He wanted him too.

A crackle of pleasure like electricity suddenly jolted up Steve's spine as Bucky's hips pressed, flush, against his own. His hand slid up his waist, catching at the hem of his shirt just enough to expose a pale, white sliver of his stomach and hips. Steve gasped, arching into the touch as his chin dropped to his chest, breaking the kiss, his hands curling into the back of Bucky's neck. _"God-"_ He whispered breathlessly, panting, blinking rapidly, and Bucky suddenly felt a nudge of indecision. 

"Sorry..." He whispered, instinctively moving to smooth Steve's shirt back over the exposed skin, his body coiled to pull away, but Steve's hold tightened, one hand sliding back to grip at his shoulder. 

"No- no-" He blurted, his breath catching, eyes falling closed. "No- Buck, it's alright...It's alright, it just- it feels _so good_ to be able to touch you again..." 

Bucky faltered, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips before he stooped, his whole body pressed against him now as he touched a soft kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth. "Don't want to hurt you..." Bucky murmured, his stubble scratching at Steve's already flushed skin, and Steve's arms slowly slid up, curling around Bucky's neck and shoulders, holding him close. He hadn't dared something like this before, it was too confining, too claustrophobic, and Steve had been afraid that Bucky might react poorly. But his body was relaxed, and unguarded, and Steve took the risk.

"I want this.. _.I promise_..." Steve breathed, turning his face into Bucky's neck, his legs shifting to frame Bucky's waist. He nuzzled against Bucky's throat, kissing the soft, vulnerable skin, his arms tightening around his solid shoulders. "I've missed you...I've missed you _so much_ and I want _anything_ you're comfortable doing with me... _I love you.._." He whisper, kissing his neck as Bucky pressed him deeper into the couch. "I love you...Love you _so much_..." Steve huffed a ragged sigh, tipping his chin down a little before lifting his gaze to Bucky, cheeks vividly pink, soft, blue irises swallowed up by the black of his blown out pupils. "Tell me what you want..." He murmured, wanting this to be, without a doubt, consensual and mutually desired.

Bucky's mouth tightened momentarily, unused to deciding what he wanted to do with his own body. Those decisions had been made for him in the past. He'd been a tool, or a _toy,_ depending on who'd been handling him. He'd been wiped, and used, and modified without his consent. But now he was with Steve, and Steve wanted him to decide, he wanted Bucky to consciously _choose_ what he wanted, or whether or not he wanted _anything._ Bucky could _see_ what Steve wanted, but he was giving him a choice. But Bucky's answer was much more concise than Steve's.

_"You."_

Steve's breath hitched, Bucky's voice layered with intensity, and desire, and he felt his entire body flush with heat as Bucky caught his mouth once more in a deep, passionate kiss. Steve's arms slid from around Bucky's neck, one moving to his chest, the other sliding feverishly down the back of Bucky's tattered jacket, sliding it off his arms and letting it coil to the floor. His palm grazed over the warm, metal plates of his arm, feeling the smooth, hard lines, and tracing over some of the old damage to the limb. Bucky let Steve's hands brush over his arm, and chest, his own hands moving back to Steve's waist. He slipped his flesh and blood fingers under the hem of Steve's shirt, running his hand flat up the length of Steve's torso, rucking the shirt up under his arms as he moved to kiss, slow, and hungry at his neck. Steve whimpered, feeling Bucky's palm slide over his skin, running over the solid curves of his muscles, and he jerked, gasping as Bucky's index grazed over his sensitive nipples. 

Bucky's eyes flashed up to him, reading his expression in a glance; searching for any trace of discomfort, before something that _may_ have been mischief flickered through his gaze. He moved slowly, Steve looking down at him, chest heaving as he drew Steve's shirt up over his head, tossing it aside before bending, torturously slow, his eyes never leaving his face. His gaze was still locked with Steve, almost predatorily as he shifted back, purposefully dragging his hips across his erect cock before stooping to mouth at Steve's chest. The blond whimpered, Bucky's lips tracing the bulging curve of his pecs, stubble bristling over the tender skin. He kiss his chest, both hands sliding down to explore his torso, running over his ribs and stomach, feeling the hardened core of his abs before his fingertips traced the grooves of his adonis lines, stopping just shy of his waistband. _He was gorgeous._ Bucky closed his eyes, mouthing a little closer to his left nipple as Steve squirmed under him, his hands brushing lightly over the lateral cut of his waist. He remembered this, only vaguely, but he _remembered._

It was a disjointed memory, more fragments of sensations then anything. He remembered a hard, canvass cot, and the sound of bombs exploding in the distance. But more than that, he remembered tracing the muscles of Steve's body, kissing him, stroking him; ravishing his body until he was a mess. Bucky remembered the sounds Steve had made for him. _He wanted to do that again._

Bucky shifted, and sealed his mouth over one flushed nipple. He caught it lightly between his teeth, tugging gently, letting it slid between his teeth before releasing it with a wet pop that wrenched an outright moan from Steve. Bucky's tongue traced the hardened nub until it glistened with his saliva, and he took it back in his mouth, nipping lightly, and sucking on the stiff peek. 

Steve squirmed under, him, his hands tugging at the back of Bucky's shirt, hiking it up enough to see the sinful curve of his spine, the delicate dip between his back and his perfect, firm ass. But his hands were uncoordinated, his fine motor skill shot the second Bucky's mouth had grazed over his nipple. _He was so fucking sensitive_ , aching, and squirming any time someone so much as _brushed_ his nipples. He used to _hate_ it. Brock would always mock, and taunt him about it, flicking them through his shirt in the middle of work, leaving Steve hard, and uncomfortable for hours afterwards. He would pin him to his bed, teasing over them while Steve shifted and whimpered, and Brock whisper cruel words of how much his little bitch liked his tits being play with; accusing him of whoring himself out to anyone who'd touch a filthy little slut like him. 

But with Bucky, he _loved_ it.

Bucky was a perfect mirror of Rumlow, executing the same gestures, but with completely _opposite_ intentions. Brock teased Steve's nipples to watch him squirm, to get off on Steve's shame, and humiliation at his sensitivity. Bucky did to pleasure Steve. He grazed his tongue over the soft flesh, _almost_ smiling as Steve panted underneath him, a secret pleasure coiling in his gut as he made Steve feel good, made him flush and gasp. He shifted his hips slowly, feeling Steve's cock, hard in the confines of his jeans, as Bucky rolled his hips slowly against his, his mouth working against his skin until Steve was full on whimpering with pleasure.

Steve's head was spinning, his cock aching, still trapped inside his tight jeans, the constriction making him desperate. His fingers hooked under the back of Bucky's shirt, dragging it up until it caught under his arms, and Steve whimpered. Taking the hint, Bucky eased off his nipple with a soft gasp, running his tongue over it in a flat, broad sweep that made Steve's hip jerk, before Bucky shifted his shirt all the way off over his head, the dog tags, still hanging on their sturdy chair, _clinking_ back against his skin. He tossed his shirt to the floor with Steve's, almost immediately stooping again, this time catching his opposite nipple between his teeth, teasing it with light tugs and gentle love bites. 

"Bucky-" Steve rasped, his voice strangled and he felt a buzz run through his chest as Bucky hummed, his mouth still working sinfully over his flushed, wet nipple. "Bucky- you've gotta- You- Oh _fuck-_ feels so good, but you've _gotta_ give me more, Bucky- I ca- _I can't-"_ His voice broke, and immediately Bucky eased off, which Steve suddenly realized was _far_ worse that just the teasing. 

Bucky braced himself over Steve's, his body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, muscles defined in the low light, his face shadowed, and Steve felt arousal spike through him. Bucky had never had control before in his memory. Every decision had been made for him, and then forced onto him without his consent. Now, Steve had given him complete, and explicit control. It would be so easy for him to abuse it. It would be so easy for Bucky to take advantage of the control Steve had give to him and use it to hurt him, but Steve knew in his gut he wouldn't. He trusted Bucky, even now, even as unstable as he was, he trusted him. Because ten months ago, with _no_ conscious memory of him at all, Bucky had _still_ decided to save him. Now, Bucky had pieces of his memory back. He _knew_ Steve, and Steve had worked to build his trust of him. He _remembered_ him, and Steve knew he wouldn't hurt him. 

The dark haired man stared down at Steve hungrily, his hands running from his chest, down to his hips, tracing the waistband of his jeans; maddeningly light, enough to make Steve stifle a whimper. Still watching his lover's face, Bucky clicked open his belt, slowly threading the leather out through the buckle, and dragged down the zipper of his jeans. He could feel the bulge of his cock, straining against the cotton on his boxers, and Bucky's stomach warmed with the sudden instinct to stoop, and mouth at his cock through the thin material; to feel it against his lips, and hear Steve groan with arousal. But Steve was already desperately hard from Bucky's stimulation of his nipples, and he wanted to make him feel good. He gave Steve's jeans and experimental tug, feeling them slide a little lower on his hips, and when Steve didn't protest, he eased them the rest of the way down, slipping them off his ankles along with his socks. 

_God- Steve was fucking gorgeous._

He was staring up at him with wide, blown out eyes, his mouth dropped open as he stared at Bucky's body. He lay under him, bare legs framed by Bucky's powerful thighs, heaving chest scrapped raw with stubble burn, face pink, thin lines of sweat slipping down his temples, neck, and chest, pooling in the dips between his solid muscles. _He was beautiful._ Silently, Bucky slipped off his own ratty jeans, Steve's eyes widening with every article of clothing he removed, and Bucky slowed, studying Steve's expression. He like that. He liked watching him, and Bucky's hands dragged seductively down his own stomach, fingers slipping into his boxers. Steve wet his mouth, swallowing hard, and Bucky felt a tug of pride as he drank in the sight of his body. He shifted slowly onto his knees over Steve's legs, sliding the thin material lower, his cock clearly outlined in the dim light. Steve dragged his lower lip between his teeth, bitting it bloodless as he watched, his cock twitching in his shorts as Bucky teased his boxers lower, having picked up on his helpless arousal at seeing him undress. 

Bucky slide his boxers down around his thighs, and Steve's breath caught. Bucky mouth twitched in a faint, satisfied smirk, and he shoved the material down to his knees, kicking it off as he shifted forward onto his hands, bracing his weight over him, prowling forward like a predator as his strong fingers dragged over the front of Steve's boxers. Steve could have sworn he was going to draw blood. His lip stung between his teeth, but if he let go, he was going to make the most embarrassing _cry_ of arousal that had ever slipped from his lips. He bit down harder, the tormented flesh going numb.

Bucky shifted his powerful, naked frame over him, the head of his thick sturdy cock tracing across Steve's lower stomach, leaving thin, warm smears of moisture across his flushed skin and the blonde bit back a whimper, squirming desperately. He wanted- no - _needed_ to feel their naked bodies flush together, needed to feel the hot, wet slide of skin on skin. Finally, Bucky caved. He slid Steve's boxer's off his hips, dragging them down before his breath froze in his chest. _Shit._ He didn't remember Steve being that fucking _perfect._ His cock was gorgeous; long, and heavy, flushed red, and already wet around the slit. He licked his lips hungrily, his metal fingers dragging down to trace just the base of his member, and Steve's hips jerked at the contact. The tip of Bucky's finger slid through his messy slit, smearing a line of precome down the underside of his shaft "Steve-" He breathed, his name slipping from his lips, low and tender, his eyes half lidded as he stared down at his lover's firm body. Steve hummed at the sound. He loved when Bucky said his name, it solidified the assurance inside him that he really _did_ remember; that he knew him, even if not completely. _"Steve,"_ Bucky pressed again, and this time, Steve recognized the gentle prompt for what it was.

He blinked, head hazy with pleasure. "What?" He whispered, cheeks pink, staring up at the intimidating, devastatingly _gorgeous_ figure Bucky cut above him.  

Bucky wet his mouth, his eyes flickering momentarily to the side before settling back on his face. "Do you have supplies," He asked in an undertone, "I- I don't want to hurt you..." 

For a second, Steve's thoughts stuttered, because what else could he possibly need if he had Bucky? And then his brain caught up with his body, and Steve realized _of course_ they needed supplies. This was a first time all over again, and they needed to do it right. No one would feel good, or even _comfortable_ if they didn't at least have lube. But having just come out of a vicious sexually abusive relationship, and knowing the man he loved was alive somewhere, Steve had done _nothing_ in the past ten months, and wasn't even sure what he _had_ in terms of supplies. He faltered, blinking uncertainly. "Yeah-" He breathed, his expression flickering with uncertainty. "Yeah- yeah, I think...I...There's Vaseline in the bathroom, I can-" Steve moved to sit up, but Bucky's strong hand pressed against his chest, pinning him lightly to the couch. 

"I'll get it." He murmured simply, his eyes softening as his finger trailed affectionately down his body. 

Steve nodded, a little breathless. "Cabinet above the sink." He instructed, and Bucky nodded once, before slipping off the couch and disappearing, leaving Steve cold, and achingly hard. 

A moment later, Bucky came back into the living room, a square, plastic container hanging from his left hand. He eased back over Steve, slow, and careful, laying a gentle kiss against his sternum before trailing a soft line up his neck to the underside of his jaw. He worked blindly, deftly popped the lid off of the Vaseline, the fingers of his right hand sweeping through the gelled substance and lifting a healthy glob away. A purr of pleasure rumbled deep in Bucky's chest, his teeth catching lightly at Steve's throat before he sealed his mouth over the soft skin, sucking gently as his hand slipped down between Steve's leg. "I didn't see condoms..." He breathed against his neck, sucking the soft skin between his teeth and nipping lightly, just enough to coax a low gasp from Steve. "I'll just use my hands, I promise..."

"No-" Steve broke out shortly, his eyes flashing open, and Bucky's hand immediately stilled against the soft inside of his thigh. It had been too long. _He needed him-_ he...But he couldn't be selfish, could he? "Sorry." Steve said quickly. "No, forget I said that, that's fine."

Bucky hesitated, studying him, trying to read his expression, but coming up empty. He stooped, gently kissing his jaw, his beard scraping softly over his skin. _"Steve..."_ He murmured, rubbing his hands soothingly over his ribs, kissing just under his jaw and back up to his ear. "I want you to be comfortable...There were no condoms, I thought you might not want-" He trailed off, feeling a little heat in his cheeks, a touch of shame tugging at his stomach.

 _"No,"_ Steve said again, but this time his voice had grown soft, rather than frantic, and he cautiously touched the side of Bucky's jaw, lifting his gaze to his. " _I want you..."_ He said firmly, looking him dead in the eye. "I want you no matter _anything_ else, but I want this to be good for you too...You've got as much a say in this as I do, but- but if you'd be comfortable with it- I wan't you inside me, please- I- I want that..."

Bucky wet his mouth, his lashes lowered as he slid close, mouth grazing against Steve's, and Steve suddenly felt his fingers beginning to move. He jolted with a thrill of surprise, and arousal as Bucky's slicked fingers exploring the vulnerable insides of his thighs, nudging against his balls before finally coming to rest; brushing feather-light over his hole.  _God he wanted him so bad._ He needed this, needed it even more than he knew. Bucky's touch- his _love-_ healed something in him that Steve hadn't been able to touch on his own. It undid a fear of intimacy, enforced that he could be loved, and that sex didn't have to be agonizing; didn't have to leave him bleeding, and sobbing. _He needed this,_ and Bucky was willing to give it to him. But it was still hard to overcome the claws of fear that hooked into his heart. Steve swallowed, his cock dripping precome across his stomach, the tight rim of his ass fluttering at the light touch, and his stomach instinctively tightened. He closed his eyes, muscles tensing as he braced for the rough intrusion.

But Bucky didn't force his fingers up into Steve's tense body. He didn't jam two or more past his unprepared rim with no forewarning the way Rumlow used too, sometimes for the pure pleasure of seeing his fingers come out scarlet, and Steve let out a raw gasp of relief. Bucky touched gently over the tight knot, dabbing at it for a moment with the Vaseline before beginning to rub over it in massaging circles, coaxing out the tension. He worked on him slowly, treating him with the utmost care, just rubbing over his hole until Steve shivered, moaning for more, and only then did he breach his body with just the tip of one finger. He worked it in and out of his body, slow, and gentle, until the muscle loosened and it slid through his tight, wet heat with little friction. He ravished Steve's neck as he worked him open patiently, one finger, and then two, his mouth working on Steve's throat the entire time, until it was beard-burned as thoroughly as his face and chest. Finally, he was able to slide three fingers in and out of Steve's loosened entrance, Steve quivering under him, begging, his words catching and breaking over one another as Bucky intimately stroked the inner walls of his body. 

Slowly, Bucky drew his slick fingers out, Steve gasping audibly as his ass suddenly felt loose, and empty; wet and fluttering greedily for more. "Bucky-" He whined, but Bucky shushed him softly, capturing his mouth in a kiss as he eased Steve's trembling legs apart, rubbing soothingly over his thighs "There..." Bucky breathed, his hand sliding down to stroke over his own cock; flushed, and ready, milky precome dribbling down his shaft. "Open up for me..." He purred; one of the first words Bucky had spoken outside of sheer necessity. Steve had been the one babbling as Bucky fucked his fingers in and out of his ass. Steve had been the one raggedly gasping out how beautiful Bucky was- how much he missed him- loved him. Bucky had been almost entirely silent. Now, he looked down at Steve, spread out below him, wet and open, chest heaving with arousal, and felt words spilling from his lips like he hadn't known he was capable. "There we go..." He breathed, brushing his thumb over his loose rim to double check that he was really ready. "There we go Steve...Open up for _me...fuck..."_ Bucky wet his lips, his hand unconsciously fucking a little faster over his cock. "Perfect..." He whispered reverently, easing forward, his cock head brushing against Steve's entrance, his breath hitching in his chest. "You're fucking _perfect,_ Steve..."

He shifted slightly, lifting his head to look Steve dead in the eye, his lips wet, and parted, over-long hair hanging in front of his eyes. "You're sure?" he breathed, and Steve's tight expression melted into a gentle smile, the corners of his perfect blue eyes crinkling as he nodded. Steve's lashes lowered, brushing against his cheekbones as he took Bucky's face, and drew him into a soft, tender kiss. 

Bucky reached up, cradling Steve's jaw in the palm of his left hand, the metal going warm against his skin as he slowly eased forward. "Relax..." Bucky coaxed tenderly, kissing him soft, and slow as he pressed against Steve's entrance, and then he slid forward, breaching Steve's body with just the head of his cock.

Steve's stomach swooped, his breath catching as he felt Bucky inside him. Such a tiny amount, just the tip, but still more than Steve had  _ever_ thought he could have again. He could feel his precome wetting his rim, his body unconsciously spasming as he was stretched open, Bucky pressing closer. He was gentle. _Achingly_ gentle, moving so softly, and tenderly it made Steve's throat tighten, but he didn't stop. He slid into Steve in one, drawn out motion, Steve's breath freezing in his lungs as Bucky stretched his body wide, his rim prickling, and burning as it was pulled bloodless around his lover's thick girth. _God-_ He was so fucking _thick-_ Bucky's cock filled him up, sliding, wet, and slow along Steve's hot, velvety insides, and Steve stifled a helpless moan of arousal. 

Bucky's lips twitched at the sound, and he nuzzled under his jaw, a primal growl rumbling in his chest as he slid deeper. He loved the sounds Steve made, he loved the helpless gasps, and whimpers, the way his desperation peeked out as his blunt fingernails scrapped down Bucky's back, digging into his ass. He felt so good- _wet_ , and _tight,_ the friction making Bucky's stomach tighten. He could feel Steve trembling, his fingers digging into his soft flesh, squeezing, and groping at his ass, his pulse racing under Bucky's lips as he sucked and bit at his throat. 

"Bucky-" Steve choked out, his gripped tightening on his two handfuls of Bucky's ass, dragging his hips closer and gasping as the movement pushed Bucky's entire length into him. His balls smacked against Steve ass, and a strangled groan tore from Bucky's lips, a shudder running up his muscular back. "God- oh- Oh _fuck-"_ Steve caught his lower lip between his teeth, bitting it raw and Bucky pushed closer, his hips bones grinding against Steve's. The press of bone on bone sent just the right throb of hot, heady pain through Steve's lower body, Bucky beginning to rock back and forth, grinding their hips together, dragging his cock in and out of Steve in tiny increments. He whimpered aloud, his fingernails digging crescents into his soft skin, finger tips pressing deeply into the hardened muscle underneath. His cock was trapped between Bucky's body and his own stomach, sweat and precome pooling on his skin, squelching between them as Bucky's grinding, rocking motion grew deeper. 

Bucky clutched Steve against his body, his fingers gripping into him, leaving patterns of bruises across his neck and back, his chest heaving in ragged gasps, as he drew out further with each thrust; each thrust more forceful, and confident. His teeth caught on the side of Steve's neck, the pressure tugging a feral moan from the other man's lips as his hips bucked against his, back arching to press against his lover's chest. Bucky's hand slid down to Steve's lower back at the delicious arch formed, and he caught him tight, crushing their bodies together as he thrust up into him, his cock aching from the friction. 

Steve's tight hole clenched around Bucky's cock, his breath catching as Bucky's teeth eased off his neck, and he kissed hungrily over the mark he'd left on his flesh, sucking, and pressing it with his tongue. He lavished it with affection before laying a line of hot, desperate kissed up Steve's throat and catching his mouth in a clash of tongues and teeth. His right arm tightened around Steve's waist, clutching him close as his left moved to the back of his neck, holding his head as he kissed Steve with absolute passion and control, catching the noises that slipped from him in his mouth. He caught Steve's lip between his teeth, Steve moaning with pleasure at he teased it out, tugging on it as he rolled his hips against his own. 

"Mmh-" Steve stifled a helpless choke of pleasure as Bucky gave a particularly sharp thrust, snapping his hip forward, his thighs hitting Steve's ass with a wet _smack_ as he drew out and thrust again. Steve shuddered underneath him, his head spinning, his lower stomach twitching as his cock hardened painfully between their hot, sweaty bodies. _"Bucky-"_ He gasped, his cheeks scarlet, flushed chest heaving. "More- more, please- god- Bucky please-  I- I need- _AH-"_ His words broke off in a ragged cry as Bucky slammed into him, his hips snapping forward to thrust into Steve's wet, inflamed hole, his tender insides dragging at his cock every time he pulled out.

Bucky grabbed Steve's face, cutting off the cry, his tongue forcing deeply into his mouth and Steve arched into the touch, their desperation coming to a peek, hands gripping, and touching, and clawing anywhere they could reach, Steve rolling his hips down to meet Bucky's thrusts with a dry sob of pleasure. Steve's hands dragged up Bucky's back and neck to catch his jaw in both wide, warm hands, dragging him closer, his nose scrunching against Bucky's cheek, mouth aching, and swollen. He kissed him like he was the only good thing in the world, like to lose him again would strip his heart from his chest and leave him hollow, and broken. He kissed him like he'd loved him his whole life. _He kissed him like he was every true thing he'd ever felt._

"I love you-" Bucky gasped, his lips parted against Steve's wet, open mouth before he dragged him in again, one hand sliding down to anchor on his thigh as he thrust faster; deeper. His cock slammed home with each thrust, Steve trembling violently underneath him as he teetered just on the verge of release, his slit dripping precome, the milky fluid smearing between their bodies. Bucky's fingers dug into his thigh and neck, Steve still clinging to his jaw as he rolled down against Bucky, forcing him deeper, feeling him filling his body; stretching him wide, and Steve felt his chest suddenly tighten. His eyes stung, moisture wetting his lashes as another choked sob shook from his chest, muffled against Bucky's mouth, his fingertips pressing the skin bloodless. 

"Steve-" Bucky whispered, space barely breaking between the lips, one of Bucky's hand carding through his hair as his thrust slowed, but he didn't stop. He rolled his hips in slow, sinuous shifts, taking Steve tenderly as his fingers dragged through his bangs, mouth meeting his in sweet, gentle kisses as the tears spilled down Steve's cheeks. "Shhh..." He hushed softly, his hands rubbing over his body, caressing him soothingly, stroking him as the streak of desperation cooled, shifting to raw, open love. "Shhh...Shhh, Stevie, its okay...Its okay...I'm here..." He whispered, Steve's breath hitched as he pressed into his neck, clinging to him, tears sliding down Bucky's neck, pooling in the dip of his collarbone. "Hey...I'm here...I'm here... _I love you._.."

Bucky shifted Steve's back up off the couch, slowly cradling him against him, his bare thighs wrapped around Bucky's solid waist, their chests, flush, together. He clung to him, chest aching, breath catching with sobs as Bucky stroked down his back, making love to him, soft, and gentle. He rocked into Steve, dragging in an out of him until Steve's whole body was trembling, and his muscles quivered with unreleased pressure, balls drawn up tight, and cock dripping between them. "Go on..." Bucky breathed, kissing Steve's neck, future, and further up until his lifted his face to his once more, Steve blinking rapidly, tears scatter through his long lashes like fragmented crystal. "Go on...Come for me Stevie," He murmured, catching his soft, trembling mouth in a gentle kiss, his hands sliding down to draw their hips closer together.

Steve's arms tightened around Bucky's neck, feeling like his chest was going to explode, because Bucky was _here-_ he was _alive-_ and by some impossible miracle, he was allowed to call him his. _Bucky was his._ The man he'd loved from the time they were children had clawed back to him from the dead, and _still_ wanted him regardless of _everything_ that had happened. And after so long of being manipulated, and abused, Steve felt himself being treated with the raw affection, and soft, tender love that he thought he'd never feel again. 

Bucky gave two more deep, intimate thrusts, and Steve broke. 

Steve's spine curled forward, his toes curling as his heels dug into Bucky's tail bone. With a gasping cry, Steve's cock spilled between them, streaking hot lines of his release across Bucky's solid, muscular chest. His come dribbled across his pecs and stomach, Bucky's arms tightening around Steve as he fucked him, deep and slow through his orgasm, whispering soft nothings into Steve's ear. He kisses his cheeks and jaw, Steve shivering against him, his hips jerking out of time as Bucky thrust up into him. He pressed in against Bucky, heedless of his essence cooling between them, conscious only of Bucky's strong arms holding him solidly against him, of the way he could feel his lover's stomach tightening, his body coiling as the sweet nothings broke off into half formed moans and gasps. He felt only _Bucky;_ only his breath on his throat, and his stubble scraping his chin, only his cock, blood hot inside his ravished body.

And finally, a raw moan tore from Bucky's lips, and Steve felt his cock pulse, wet heat spilling into his body, Bucky's fingers digging bruises into his shoulders as he trembled through the after shock.

For a second, the world could have stopped spinning, the atmosphere stripped away and neither would have cared. There was no breath left in their lungs, Bucky's mouth was frozen open in a silent cry against Steve's neck, Steve pressed against him, breathless; shaking. And then, Bucky let out a shuddering sigh, slumping forward as he eased Steve back down onto the couch. He sunk down on top of him, his whole weight settling on his broad chest, Steve's legs and arms still tangled around him, Bucky hands resting numbly on his neck. Steve let his comforting weight force the frozen air from his stunned lungs and he dragged in a deep breath, his head foggy, and numb with pleasure; chest flushed, thighs trembling.

The thin, metal dog tags stuck to Steve's sweaty, come-streaked chest as Bucky lay on top of him, resting right over his heart, pressed between Bucky's skin and his own. Steve felt the tears drying on his cheeks, crusting his lashes together, but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. The aching, overwhelming disbelief that have come with realizing Bucky had come back to him had given way to soft, warm contentment. His chest was still tight with emotion, but it no longer felt like it was going to shatter his ribcage, and break his heart. The tightness was just there, solid, and real, like Bucky's weight over top of him. The ache was there _because_ it was real, but it was a good kind of ache, the kind of ache Steve almost didn't _want_ to let go of. Because he never wanted to forget how thankful he was that Bucky was his again.

Bucky lay against Steve's chest for a long time, breathing heavily, his body hot with pleasure, his mind quiet, and content. He wasn't used to his mind being so silent, but right here, with Steve, he could almost forget the chaos entirely. He was grateful for the peace, and nuzzled into Steve's sweaty neck, his hands moving to sooth tenderly over his lover's ribs. He shifted carefully, not wanted to disturb him as he slowly drew his soft, sticky cock out of Steve's body, his cooling release dribbling down Steve's ass and thighs as he pulled out, but the blond hair man barely stirred. He breathed a soft sigh under him, his numb fingers twitched against Bucky's back as he settled back in against him, silent, and reassuring.

Gradually, Steve's breathing began to even out, either asleep, or lost in a haze of bliss, and Bucky found something very unusual happening to him as he stared down at him. He smiled. Just faintly, just briefly, but the smile touched his mouth all the same. Steve looked like an angel; that is, if angels could be found with sweaty sex hair and beard-burn from their chin to the stomach. His cheeks were still flushed a delicate pink, mouth loose, and relaxed, his eyes closed. He looked so _content,_ so unguarded, and so undeniably _happy_ that it made Bucky's chest tighten _. He was in love with him._ It wasn't past tense any more, it wasn't the man who _used_ to be Bucky remembering that he had loved Steve _once._ He loved him _now,_ and it was every bit as real, all though none the less complicated than it had been seventy years ago. 

Bucky shifted slowly, Steve's hands sliding from his body as he lifted himself off of him, the ghost of the smile still lingering on his lips as he stooped, kissing Steve just once, just gently. "I'm coming back soon..." He whispered, his fingers brushing softly through Steve's hair one more time before he straightened. He didn't _want_ to leave, but he wasn't ready to stay either. Maybe someday, but not yet. One thing was for certain though, he wouldn't be gone long. He couldn't, _not when Steve was waiting for him._

Bucky was half way to the door when something stilled his motion, and he faltered, his fingers brushing to doorknob as he stopped. He stood for a moment, still, before glancing back at Steve's figure, sprawled out on the couch, breathing evenly. A second later, the little shadow of the smile ghosted back across his mouth and Bucky slipped back to Steve's side. Moving slowly, so as not to wake him, Bucky lifted the chain from around his neck, the dog tags clinking together softly as he lowered them down over Steve's heart, letting the chain drape around his neck. He had seen the look in his eyes when he'd held them out to him in one shaking fist. He'd _seen_ the desperation, the _loss_ at relinquishing them. But Bucky remembered now, he didn't need the tags when he woke up in a cold sweat and couldn't remember who he was. He didn't need them to grip until his palm bled to bring himself down from a panic attack, or to restrain himself when he caught wind of a renegade HYDRA agent, and _knew_ Steve didn't want him to kill. He didn't need them anymore, but _Steve_ still did.

Bucky brushed his fingertips softly over the imprint of his name, the name that had been taken from him; the name that Steve had given back. And now _Bucky_ was giving it back to _him._  

Bucky caught back the ends of his dark, overlong hair as he bent, not wanting the feathered ends to tickles Steve's skin, waking him up. He slipped close, eye softening as his hooded gaze lingered on his lover's face for just a moment more before he brushed his rough, chapped lips over Steve's perfectly soft mouth. He couldn't resist, he could leave without kissing him just one more time before he left. Bucky straightened, conflict tugging in his stomach at Steve sighed, low, and content at the kiss. But his resolve won over, and he slipped back to the door, watching Steve over his shoulder before finally dropping his chin to his chest and slipping out of his apartment, disappearing into the night.

-.-

When Steve woke up, he found himself alone, and a sharp stab of loneliness lanced through his chest.

But it couldn't last, not when he had the vague memory of Bucky's promise echoing in his ear, his lips still tingling from the parting kiss. Not when he woke to find Bucky's name resting, right where it belonged, over his heart. It couldn't last when he could feel the lingering traces of Bucky on his body, his scent lingering on his skin, and as Steve traced over everywhere Bucky had touched, he felt the pang of loneliness ease.

Bucky would come back back to him. This had been more than Steve could have ever asked for, but Bucky was far from healed. He needed to remove himself to let his mind settle, to reconcile new information, memories, and feelings, but he _always_ came back to him. It had taken seventy years, but he was finally _here,_ and Bucky would come back to him when he was ready again, and Steve would be allowed to see, and touch, and hold the man he loved again.

He just needed a little patience. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry this chapter is so colossally long, but I don't think it could be helped. Either way, I'm really proud of how this came out, and I hope it makes up for all the pain and angst I've dragged you guys through. So, enjoy, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts. :)


	11. Rogers Residence 1400 Hours

Steve pieced through his dresser drawers, fumbling through the neatly folded stacks of shirts until he pulled out a soft, light-blue cotton t-shirt. He and Sam had met for lunch for an hour that afternoon, and Steve had opted for a button up with a nice collar; but he was home now, and it was growing to be a place of comfort. Before, Steve had never thought of his apartment as more that a handful of walls and corners, with a window or two, and a couple pieces of furniture, but not anymore. Now, it had been the sight of countless late night with Sam and Natasha, it had been a place for dinner and movie nights with his small group of friends; a place to sit and talk over a casual beer. It was now littered with little reminders of the people he loved; always a cold water bottle in the fridge for Sam if he stopped in after a jog, always a small stock of Natasha's favorite french vanilla cappuccinos for the Keurig. Bucky never left anything _substantial,_ but his memory hung around the apartment like a pleasant aroma and Steve couldn't help the little smile that would touch his mouth, his chest tightening every time he looked at the couch, and remembered what he'd been lucky enough to share with him there. 

His little apartment was becoming a _home,_ and Steve couldn't remember feeling so content with his life in a _very_ long time. 

Smiling faintly to himself, Steve set the t-shirt on the edge of his neatly made bed, deftly undoing the line of small buttons on his shirt. He slipped it off of his powerful shoulders, tossing the button up into the laundry in a neat arch and Steve had just turned to pick up the more comfortable shirt when he heard the door to his apartment click open.

His heart jerked in his chest, but Steve quickly quelled the flush of alarm, dragging in a deep breath. Wetting his lips, Steve caught up his shield from the foot of the bed, more instinctively than anything, and slowly opened his bedroom door, easing out. "Nat?" He asked softly, ruling out Sam as he'd just seen him less than an hour ago. "Natasha?" _God he hoped it was just Natasha-_ Steve slipped into the living room, the hair prickling across the back of his neck, and he stopped dead.

"Bucky?"

Bucky stood in the doorway of his apartment, one hand resting against the wall as he toed his ratty sneakers off at the door, glancing up at him with one corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. He tugged his jacket off his arms, his hands moving to hang it on a hook by the door. "Hey Steve," Bucky breathed, his voice low, and soft as always, and Steve's felt himself snap with mental whiplash. _It was broad daylight._ Bucky had _never_ appeared any earlier than full dark before. But it was two o'clock in the afternoon, and Bucky was walking through his door like nothing was out of routine at all. 

He blinked, the shield dropping loosely to his side, shock filtering through his system before suddenly giving way to a sharp spike of nervous anxiety. "Hey-" He breathed, letting the shield slip fully from his hand, resting it blindly against the wall with a dull clatter, and he strode towards him, his chest tightening fearfully. "Its the middle of the afternoon- Are you okay? _Are you hurt_ \- I-"

Bucky's brow drew at the urgency in his tone, and he instinctively eased back a step, looking half-afraid that he'd done something wrong, that Steve didn't want him here. "I just-" He faltered, shoulders tense as Steve stopped just two feet shy of him, eyes huge with concern. "I just... _wanted to see you._..Is there someone else here- do you want me to go?" Bucky asked, his voice suddenly dropping, eyes snapping around the room as his guard prickled up, body coiling with tension. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to be seen by anyone other than Steve.

"No-" Steve said quickly, a little huff of relief escaping his lips. "No, no, Buck, no one's here, it's okay. I was just- You don't usually come during the day, I thought...I though maybe something was wrong." A soft laugh slipped from his lips, Steve suddenly feeling the tension in his chest give way to warmth, the nervousness purging from his system. He smiled faintly, tipping his chin down against his bare chest, feeling a little flush creeping across his skin. He could feel Bucky staring at him, and frankly, he couldn't say he minded.

Bucky unconsciously mirrored Steve's movements, his chin tipping down just slightly before he looked back up to him, drinking in the sight. Steve stood in from of him in a neat pair of dark, tight jeans, his chest bare, tinging pink as he began to blush, and Bucky cracked a tiny smile. "I'm _fine."_ He murmured, his heart fluttering at Steve's concern. "Just missed you." Steve looked up, the corners of his eyes crinkling warmly as he smile, and a huff of air escaped him as he moved forward. Bucky felt a a thrill run up his spine as Steve's wide, solid hands framed the back of his neck, drawing him in to press a gentle, sweet kiss against his lips. He hummed against the touch, framing Steve's waist, the other man inhaling sharply through his nose as Bucky's cold metal fingers brushed his skin. 

"Hm- sorry..." Bucky breathed, breaking the kiss just long enough for the murmured words to pass between them before he closed the space again, catching Steve's mouth in his own. Bucky wasn't sure about much. His life was still a lot of uncertainty. But if he was sure about anything, it was that he loved Steve. It was the _only_ certainty he had. 

Bucky deepened the kiss, his rough beard scratching over Steve's skin, and Steve gave a slight _hiss,_ drawing back, tipping his chin down abruptly. _"God-"_ Steve breathed, his mouth tugging into a half-smirk, his head jerking in a little shake. "Buck- you giving me beard burn all over my body is _fucking hot_ , but its getting kind of hard to kiss you." Even though the previous round of beard burn had already _visibly_ healed,  Steve's mouth, and chin, and cheeks were still tender. Bucky had been back three times now since the first time they'd _dared_ to touch, and the two men had indulged in the intimacy they hadn't been able to share in so long. They made out on the couch, or on Steve's bed; kissing slow, and lazy with wandering, caressing hands, limbs tangling, and heart racing. Bucky had left Steve every time with a flush of red across his mouth, and neck, and chest, and Steve was beginning to feel uncomfortably _raw_ whenever Bucky's wiry stubble scrapped over his skin. 

Bucky hesitated, drawing back just a little bit more, an apologetic look flickering through his gaze as Steve rubbed a hand over his already vividly pink mouth. He wet his lips, a little uncertain. The beard had been a by product, nothing more. He hadn't had access to what he needed to take care of it properly, so he'd let it grow. It had provided a certain bit of anonymity as well, but his need for that was slowly decreasing. Still, Bucky had hidden behind it for so long he would _feel..._ vulnerable _...unguarded..._ But abruptly, he made his decision. He didn't _need_ to be guarded around Steve, and as terrifying as it was, he could trust Steve to see him vulnerable.

"Could I use a razor?" He asked softly, and Steve looked up quickly, his hand dropping away from his flushed mouth. 

"Yeah, Yeah, absolutely-" Steve said hurriedly, a little taken aback. But none the less, his hands slid gently to Bucky's arms, a little smile tugging faintly at his lips. "Come on, I'll show you were everything is." He led Bucky down the hall, pushing open the bathroom door and guiding him inside. While Bucky made himself comfortable on the closed lid of the toilet seat, Steve retrieved a sleek, multi bladed razor, a washcloth, and shaving cream, turning back to place them on the nearest corner of the sink. "There you go, Buck." He said with a warm smile, but it faltered as he watched the way Bucky was eyeing the supplies, like they were foreign, like he had no idea what to do with them. Suddenly it hit Steve that Bucky probably hadn't giving himself a proper shave in his living memory. From the unevenness, and patchiness of Bucky's long, wiry stubble, at some point, he'd _probably_ tried to scrape it shorter with some kind of blade, but given up, resign to let it grow. Before that, he would have been with HYDRA, and they'd be damned if the Asset was allowed to handle _any_ kind of blade outside of a mission. He had probably been strapped into a chair and shaved only when it was convenient. Steve wet his lips cautiously, Bucky still immobile, and he eased a step closer, his eyes lowering as he traced his fingers absently over the sink-top. 

"You want me to-"

 _"Yes."_ Bucky said shortly, and Steve's eyes flashed up, the rest of his words dying on his lips. Bucky blinked, and suddenly dropped his chin away, his eyes flashing to the floor. "Sorry..." He murmured, his cheeks flushing dully. "I just..."

Steve silenced him with an understanding smile, dropping to his knees in front of him, and gently rubbing his hand over his muscular thigh. "Its okay." Steve murmured, gesturing subtly with his chin. "Why don't you take your shirt off? I don't want to get shaving cream on it."

The look of uncomfortable embarrassment on Bucky's face ebbed, and he lifted his eyes, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a smile. The expression still felt bizarre, and unnatural, but he was learning to get used to it. "You try'na undress me Rogers?" He murmured, still a little pink in the cheeks, and Steve snorted, his chest suddenly blossoming with warmth at Bucky's cautious attempt at humor. 

"Not before we get that beard taken care of." He retorted with a smile, the ache of love in his chest trying to break through the shell of his ribs. He swore if the ache from losing Bucky hadn't killed him, the ache from _loving_ him would. He felt so _full,_ all the time, like he was going to burst, and it _hurt. Fuck_ it hurt, _but Steve wouldn't trade it for anything in the world._ Steve let out a low huff, still smiling as he scooted himself a little closer. "Come on-" He prompted.

Breaking the eye contact, Bucky complied, tugging his shirt off over his head and letting it drop to the floor. Steve raised up a little higher, reaching to fill a cup that had set on the sink full of warm water, wetting the wash cloth while the tap was running before settled back in between Bucky's knees. He reached up, wetting Bucky's skin with the warm, wet cloth, until droplets of water clung to the long, wiry stubble. Once his face and neck were dabbed with the warm water, he set the cloth aside, and picked up the shaving cream, dispensing a thick, heavy pile onto the palm of his hand. Steve swept his fingers through the spongy mound and started applying it to Bucky's face, moving slowly, and gently. He covered Bucky's jaw, and neck, dabbing the thick cream most of the way up his cheekbones and up over his upper lip. He couldn't imagine doing Bucky the injustice of leaving him with only a scraggly mustache. Steve brought the cup of warm water closer to him, he heart stuttering slightly as he wet the razor, and lifted it slowly to Bucky's jaw. Bucky's eyelids fluttered, and Steve could almost _hear_ his heart rate jump, but he stayed utterly still.

The gravity of the situation wasn't lost on Steve. Bucky was letting him- _asking_ him- to run a blade over his face. He was letting Steve do something that only people who'd hurt him had ever done before, and he was _still_ trusting him. Just the fact that Steve had touched a blade to his bare skin, so near his vulnerable neck, and mouth, and eyes, and hadn't spiraled into a violent haze of terror, and panic, spoke volumes of his trust. 

Bucky didn't move. He kept his eyes closed, and Steve steadied his hands. Moving carefully, Steve glided the smooth, multi bladed tool down Bucky's jaw in short strokes, taking off the cream and the coarse, wiry stubble with it. " _There_...that's not so bad..." He murmured absently, the soft, low words meant as a comfort as he rinsed the blades and rested them back against his skin, shaving down with the grain of his beard. "Alright there?" Steve asked quietly. He could feel the tension in Bucky's body, but Steve wasn't scared. Bucky would never hurt him.

Bucky's mouth twitched tightly, but other than that, he made no reply and Steve reached up, stabilizing his chin with his free hand. A thick glob of shaving cream dropped onto Steve's wrist, slowly creeping down before falling to the bathroom tiles with a muted splat. 

"Its alright Bucky..." Steve breathed as he worked, rising the razor frequently before laying it back against his vulnerable flesh. "Its okay...You're doing good. _You know I won't hurt you..."_ Bucky dragged in a deep breath, and as he let it out, Steve felt some of the tension slip away with it. His jaw relaxed in Steve's hand, his hands now slack, rather than clenched into tight fists against the tops of his thighs. Steve made a quiet, approving sound in the back of his throat, trying to focus, trying not to get distracted by just how much of Bucky's face he was beginning to uncover. He'd always been his Bucky, but Steve would have been lying to himself if he said he still looked exactly the same, and the beard had been a major piece of that. Now, each gentle, downward stroke took more of that out of the way, and Steve felt his throat begin to tighten. He kept his eyes locked on the blade, and not the tender, pink skin he was uncovering. He told himself that he could take him in when he was done, but until then, he had to focus. The last thing he wanted was to badly nick him after Bucky had trusted him to put a blade to his face and not hurt him. 

Steve tipped up Bucky's chin, his focus tightened to a narrow point as he slowly cleaned up the underside of Bucky's jaw, and down the upper part of his throat before his hand dropped away, suddenly heavier than lead. "All done..." He said, but the words fell out as a mere _breath._  

Bucky felt the razor fall from his exposed throat, and couldn't supress the soft huff of relief. Steve wouldn't be offended, he was sure. He _knew_ this scared him, but he'd wanted to trust Steve with it anyways. Slowly, Bucky tipped down his chin, and Steve felt the air leave his lungs.

Bucky's skin was smooth, and clean of the long, scraggly stubble. Steve could see in aching clarity the dip between his nose, and upper lip; the perfect cleft in his chin that Steve had traced with his lips and nibbled at as a reckless teenager. He could see the gorgeous shape of his mouth in its entirety; wet, and plush, and so fucking _red._ His overlong hair still hung in his face, and his eyes were shadowed and splintered with lose.

But to Steve, he couldn't be more perfect. 

He couldn't help himself. Steve reached out, slow, and cautious, his hand trembling subtly as his fingertips grazed his smooth jaw. They traced the now exposed skin from beside his ear, all the way down to brush over the cleft of his chin, his hand stroking- caressing Bucky's face reverently. His eyes caught on him like he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life, his lips parted in a look of awe, his gaze soft with love. 

The expression on Steve's face tugged at Bucky's heart, and he swallowed, a little smile daring to try and turn up the corners of his perfect mouth. The air prickled cooly over the exposed skin, but Steve's touch left him warm, and he eased into it, pressing into Steve's hand as he rested his palm along his jaw. Even after the intimacy they'd shared over the past few visits, Bucky still _ached_ for Steve's affection, and he turned his head into the touch. Steve's hand slid smoothly along the tender skin as Bucky leaned into his palm, pressing his mouth against the heel of his hand, the kiss raw, and vulnerable. 

Steve's breath caught, Bucky's mouth pressing into his palm; tender, sweet, _desperate_ for his love. Unconsciously, he shifted higher on his knees, his opposite hand coming up to card softly through his love's hair, stroking it away from his face; breathless at the sight of him. 

 _"You're so beautiful..."_ He breathed helplessly, Bucky's deep, storm blue eyes lifting to him, his mouth still touching softly to Steve's palm. His lashes lowered until his eyes fell closed, exposed, and trusting as he pressed his lips back to Steve's skin, nuzzling into the touch and Steve felt his chest tighten again. If he loved this man anymore he might _break._ A soft sound escaped Steve, and he suddenly drew Bucky's mouth to his, capturing his lips in a tender kiss. His wide, warm hand cradled his smooth jaw, mouth catching Bucky's plush lower lip as he pressed into the touch; eyes closed, his heart close to bursting. He broke the kiss for just a moment, just long enough to drag in a steadying breath, just long enough to exhale a ragged _'God Buck-_ ' before he pressed back in again, shifted all the way up onto his knees, Bucky's muscular thighs framing his ribs from where he sat. 

Bucky kissed Steve in return, tender, and passionate, knowing what seeing him like this did to Steve. He hadn't dared to look in the mirror yet, but if Steve's reaction was any consolation, Bucky would take it. To him, it didn't matter so much what he looked like, but Steve's happiness mattered, and seeing him like this made Steve happy, so it was the best decision Bucky had ever made. 

After a long moment, Steve drew back, his hands still framing his jaw, still feeling the smooth skin under his touch, still tracing the soft curves of his lips and chin. A tiny smile touched the blonds mouth, his eyes soft, and wistful. "Thank you Buck..." He murmured, half-unsure why the words were even falling from his mouth, half not caring in the slightest. 

Bucky tipped his head down just a hair, his eyes flickering up to Steve from under hooded lids before that tiny attempt at a smile touched his mouth again. "You're only happy cause I'm not gonna scrape you raw anymore..."

Steve's wistful smile cracked wider, and he snorted faintly, dropping his eyes away. "Maybe a little bit," He admitted, before raising his eyes to him once more, drinking in the sight of him, burning the image into his mind. Bucky was different now, and that was _alright._ Steve loved him no matter what, but there was something comforting about seeing him like his; seeing his whole face, seeing him looking at least a _little_ bit like the way he remembered him. His face was still hardened, and drawn, and his eyes were still tormented; more often than not flickering with fear, or anger, or uncertainty. But the shape of his jaw was still the same; the sharpness of his cheekbones, and the cleft in his chin were exactly the way he remembered them, and it stirred something deep inside Steve's chest that had been silent until now. _He never wanted to let Bucky out of his sight again._

"You could just stay you know."

The words fell from Steve's lips before he could think them through, and his heart lurched as Bucky's gaze snapped up to his, a knot forming between his brows. _He hadn't meant to say it out loud._ He'd only meant to think it, but the words had pushed past his throat anyways, and now, Bucky was staring at him with that blank, unreadable gaze that turned Steve's stomach into a coil of anxiety. Steve was _sure_ he'd pushed him too hard. This was the first time Bucky had come to his home in the daylight. He never stayed more than a few hours if he was lucky, he hadn't even felt comfortable staying over night- How could Steve have thought it was okay to just _ask_ Bucky to move in with him? _Maybe_ he'd say yes, but that didn't mean he'd be _happy,_ or _comfortable._  

But he was committed now. Steve swallowed hard, drawing in a ragged breath before parting his lips. "You could live here with me..." He said softly, feeling Bucky's eyes boring into his skull, clear, and unblinking.  "You'd have a real bed; somewhere to come back to...wouldn't have to worry about where your food was coming from..." Steve continued, trying to keep his words casual, and even, despite the frantic slamming of his heart against his ribs. "No one else would have to know if you didn't want too either- I could always let you know if someone was coming over, and you could choose whether to go or stay, I- I could-" He could feel himself faltering, his cheeks and bare chest flushing pink. _God-_ He was trying _so_ fucking _hard_ to make this okay. He _wanted_ Bucky to be with him but he shouldn't have asked so soon. Now, more than anything, he was just afraid that Bucky would agree to it only for his sake, and move in with him only to be skittish, and deeply uncomfortable. Steve didn't want Bucky to feel cornered into this decision no matter what _he_ wanted. 

As Steve's words broke and fumbled off into awkward silence, Bucky still didn't reply. His expression was passive, but the moment Steve had opened his mouth, his mind had been pitched into a flurry of frantic disbelief. _Steve wanted him to stay._ He still couldn't get over the fact that Steve even wanted anything to do with him in the first place, but asking him to stay with him- _for good?_ Bucky almost couldn't believe it was anything other than a cruel joke. But Steve's gaze was raw, and honest. His mouth was set in a warm, affectionate smile, but his eyes were touched with an _aching_ desperation. He wanted this, _badly._  Bucky swallowed stiffly, his heart still racing in his chest, and dropped his eyes away.

Steve saw the tiny, decisive movement, and felt his stomach drop. Bucky didn't have to say a word. His answer was obvious. As the love of his life dropped his gaze away, Steve could see the details of his decision written in the creases between his brow. He wouldn't stay, but not everything in Steve was disappointed. Bucky had made this decision for himself, he hadn't decided to stay just because Steve wanted him too; whether or not he would be uncomfortable. Despite the pain that suddenly bloomed in his chest, Steve was _proud..._

"I can't..." Bucky murmured, feeling remorse wrench at his heart, and the soft huff of Steve's resigned laugh caught at his ears. 

"I kinda wondered if you might say that..." Steve breathed, his soft blue eyes edged with pain. 

Bucky's stomach tightened with guilt, but he steeled his resolve. _Not yet. He wasn't ready yet._ There were things he needed to do first. Bucky reached down, carefully curling his hands around Steve's upper arms, shifting the both of them slowly to their feet, Steve raising up from between his knees. His hands slid down his arms, slow, and tender, moving to frame his waist; and all the while, Steve stared at him with that look of complete, raw _love,_ that was just tinged with sadness. Bucky eased in, his forehead brushing Steve's, hooded eyes lowered so that his long lashes brushed over his cheekbones. 

 _"M'sorry...."_ He whispered, the wrench of remorse twisting into a white hot lance of guilt. 

Steve made a low sound deep in his throat, his arms suddenly coming up to twine around Bucky's neck as he drew him in, pulling Bucky's mouth close to kiss him; soft, and tender. He held the kiss for a long moment, indulging in the softness of his mouth, and the smoothness of his chin and jaw, how it brushed so gently over his own tender skin. His strong, artistic fingers carded through Bucky's hair, scraping it away from his face as his mouth moved softly against his. He held Bucky against him, stroking through his hair, kissing him tenderly until their lips broke apart, Steve drawing in a deep breath.

"No..." He murmured, his nose brushing along his, their mouths still grazing as he spoke. "Don't apologize...Its okay, I'm _glad_ you chose...I didn't want you to say yes just because it was what _I_ wanted...I wanted you to choose what _you_ needed too..." He kissed him softly just once more before drawing back just a bit, his hands slidng all the way down Bucky's arms to gently take his hands in his own. "But just so you know-" He pressed on, smirking faintly. "That offer doesn't expire. If you think you're ready tomorrow, or ten years from now, I'm _still_ gonna want you here..."

Bucky's chin dropped to his chest, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as Steve laid a soft, tender kiss to his now smooth cheek, and gave his hands a gentle squeeze. "Thanks Steve..." He breathed, his words coming out as a husky rasp as he looked up, returning the squeeze lightly. "I-" Bucky faltered, his eyes meeting Steve's bright blues, and he swallowed hard. "I...have to go take care of something...I'll be back soon."

Steve blinked, a little taken aback, but he quickly stuffed it. Bucky slipped in and out of his life like a shadow, and he never stayed for long. He always had to be ready to let go of him, but it didn't keep him from hoping that some day he wouldn't have to. But for now, it was just the way Bucky had to be- the way their _relationship_ had to be. Steve nodded slightly, his little smile falling, as he reached up to gently brush along his jaw just once more before letting his hands drop to his side.

As Steve's fingers fell from his skin, Bucky tipped his chin down, releasing Steve's hand with a bitter little smile. He wasn't ready, but he leaned in, and returned Steve's gentle kiss on the cheek none the less, before he scooped his shirt up off the sink, and slipped out of the bathroom towards the apartment's front door. He could hear Steve shadowing behind him, following his footsteps until he reached the door. For once, he didn't really feel ready to go. He _wanted_ to stay, but Steve's question had solidified something inside Bucky that he hadn't been ready to face before.

 _Steve deserved better than a murdered,_ and if Bucky had _any_ hope of a future with him, he had to close that chapter of his life for good. The only obstacle, was that Bucky wasn't sure he was strong enough to do that.

But there was only one way to find out, and that was coming face to face with the one person he wanted to kill more than anything in the world.  

-.-

Getting into Brock Rumlow's hospital room was almost _embarrassingly_ easy. In the state he was in, he was considered to be extremely low on the threat list, and had no official guard. He was treated like every other long-term patient in the facility, with a rotating roster of nurses, and no armed guards. When the man had spent the past ten months in and out of comas and surgeries, it was _hardly_ required. All Bucky had to do was get to the right floor, undetected, and wait until the last nurse of the evening slipped out of his room. 

Bucky slipped into the dark room like a malicious ghost, the door clicking close behind him, all but completely silent. Rumlow lay on the narrow hospital bed, his eyelids closed, scared mouth parted slightly, dragging shallow wheezes of air into his mangled lungs. Steve had been right, he _wasn't_ an active threat. But even seeing him like this didn't cool the sick, twisting _rage_ in the pit of Bucky's stomach. _He'd hurt Steve_. More than that- he'd pretended to _love_ him, manipulated him and made Steve feel like he could fall in love with _him._ He used Bucky's memory against Steve. He twisted, and use Steve physically, sexually, and emotionally, and Bucky could _never_ forgive him for that. He could _never_ forgive Rumlow for making Steve feel so _dirty,_ and _broken;_ for making him feel like he _deserved_ to be hurt. 

Bucky felt a vicious heat prickling up the back of his neck as he approached Rumlow's bedside, not bothering to muffle the sound of his footsteps, his hands flexing into shaking fists at his sides. 

Rumlow's eyelids twitched, his rattling breath hitching in his chest. The heavy thump of boots on the tiled floor broke through the drugged haze of his mind, registering dimly to his impeded mind. This wasn't a nurse, or a doctor; he'd memorized the sounds of the regular's steps, but this was nothing like any of them. It was dark, and menacing, and Brock felt his heart rate increased as he forced his eyelids -thick with scar tissue- open. 

A shadow loomed above him, and Brock's throat closed with a sudden flash of fear. He was helpless, all but immobile, and someone was here to kill him.

The shadow eased closer, and as Rumlow's bleary vision cleared he felt the flare of fear turn into a freezing cold knot of dread. _The Asset._ He realized too late that he'd made the mistake of assuming him dead. He'd seen re-runs of the newscasts on the T.V after waking up for the first time since being dragged out of the rubble, and had seen that the nation's golden boy had been found alive. It had eaten away at his insides like acid, _burning_ him all over again, because he was now forced to live in the immobile prison of his mutilated flesh, and Steve Rogers waltzed out of the incident like a fucking _dream._ And amid the bitterness, he'd never even _considered_ the possibility that the Winter Soldier had survived, and what that would mean for him. 

Now, the Soldier came to a stop right beside his bed, his hands hanging by his sides, eyes _dark,_ and _cruel,_ and Rumlow felt the cold knot of terror twist tighter. _He was going to die;_ before he found Steve again, before he cut open his throat and watched the life go out of those pretty blue eyes. _He was going to die._ The Asset shifted forward, hands moving as he braced his weight over Brock's shoulders, over-long hair brushing his mutilated cheeks, face inches from his. Their eyes lock, the Asset's black with fury, Rumlow's widen with fear, and-

_"You never should have open your mouth."_

The words hissed from Bucky's lips, breath hot on the face of the man who'd hurt the love of his life. His jaw was clenched, teeth aching as he grappled with the desire to find the knife in his boot, to punch it through the front of his skull and see his blood stain the sheets. He deserved it for hurting Steve. He deserved more- _worse-_ Bucky braced one knee against the side of the mattress, looming over him, the picture of the power, and control that had been stripped from him over the better part of a century. His body emanated the raw _rage_ that had been cut out of him and replaced with submissiveness, and helpless subjectivity. He had never been allowed to feel anger. He'd never been allowed to make his own decisions, or hold his own power. Now, he held Brock's life in his hands, and it was _his_ decision that would leave him dead or alive. 

Rumlow's breath caught, pain spasming through his reconstructed lungs. His eyes snapped around the room; panicked, desperate, suddenly landing on the remote on the bedside table, the square call button glowing a pale white in the darkness. His hand twitched by his side. Every movement was _agony_ even on the constant high levels of morphine, but if he could touch that call button, the Asset would be forced to leave. Or, he'd be forced to kill the nurse who would inevitable come to check the call, but that didn't cause Rumlow any distress, if anything, it would buy him a little time. His arm shifted subtly, hand creeping towards the remote, and he'd just considered that the Asset had been _remarkably_ still when suddenly he moved.

Brock's heart rate spike, and the Asset lifted one hand, reaching past Rumlow, and slowly sliding the remote away.

Bucky watched with a curl of sick pleasure as the desperate hope in Rumlow's eyes choked out like a snuffed matched, as his one finger nudged the call button just centimeters out of his reach. His eyes turned back to Brock's, level and cold, as though accusing him for just _daring_ to try and worm his way out of this. He shifted back just slightly, and actually settled himself on the edge of Rumlow's bed, still braced over him, but with his weight rested on the mattress, one leg tucked under the other, his upper body turned and shifted over him. He wet his mouth, tongue sliding out to slowly graze the sweep of his lips. 

"I don't know how long it would have taken Steve to even _mention_ what you did to him if I didn't know already..." He breathed softly, seeing the cold panic in Rumlow's gaze grow more accute as the words fell from his lips. "He carries a lot of pain with him, and if you know _anything_ about him at all, its that he'd rather keep all of that closed up in his chest and let it tear him apart than risk upsetting, or even _mildly_ inconveniencing someone else by sharing it with them." Bucky's voice was unexpectedly quiet, hushed, and soft, despite the burning hatred in his eyes. He leaned closer, his mouth suddenly twisting up at the corners, to Brock, the image of a monster, to Bucky, an avenging angel. "Which is why you _never_ should have opened your mouth to me. Because now, _I know."_ He hissed, the softness stripping from his tone. "I _know_ what you did to Steve, and I'm gonna make you regret ever even _looking_ at him the wrong way."

Brock felt his stomach turn sickly, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck and face as Bucky leaned closer, his breath hot on his face, tracing down his jaw as Bucky's mouth came to rest right over the twisted flesh that was left of his ear. " _I could kill you._..and I can't tell you how _much_ I want that...but Steve deserves better than killers like us..." He whispered, right into Brock's ear, almost able to feel his skin heating, the monitor beside the bed suddenly beeping erratically as Rumlow's heart rate skyrocketed, his mangled face draining of color. Bucky drew in a low breath, the set of his mouth tightening. "The only difference between us, is that _I'm trying to be better..."_

Rumlow's eyes flashed, darting up abruptly, glinting with cautious suspicion. 

Bucky eased back slowly, his mouth still set in a hard line. He didn't know if Rumlow was capable of speech, but the look in his eyes was clear enough. The fear was fading, not so much relief as smug certainty. _You're not going to kill me. I should have figured a docile, subservient bitch like you couldn't make a call like that on your own._ But Bucky didn't fight to reestablish the fear. It would happen on its own naturally. 

"But-" Bucky continued, rising easily to his feet and pacing leisurely around to the other side of Rumlow's bed, his boots thumping menacingly across the tiles. He drew up short of the morphine drip, his head tipping curiously to the side as he studied the twelve, thin bars on the monitor displaying his levels. "I can make you _wish_ I'd killed you." Bucky watched impassivly as Rumlow's heart rate spiked again, the momentary, smug calm giving way at his words. Slowly, almost thoughtfully, Bucky touch one of the button on the keypad by the monitor, watching the morphine levels drop from twelve, to eleven, to ten. He heard the quiet drip slowing, and the franting beat of Rumlow's heart quickening as he realized what he was doing. The number kept plunging. Seven. Five. Three.

_One._

Bucky turned away from the monitor, Brock's morphine drip slowed to almost nothing, and the soothing haze in his mind was already giving way to a dull, burning pain over every inch of his skin. The dark figure circled back around the foot of his bed, his eyes never leaving his form, watching the way Rumlow's fingers twitched helplessly after the call button, still impossibly out of his reach.

"Forget about that.." Bucky breathed, but it came out a little ragged, his hands flexing by his sides. "Your nurse will come by in the morning and readjust your drip." Bucky had promised himself he wouldn't kill Rumlow, told himself that he couldn't allow himself a life _-happiness-_ with Steve if he couldn't put this behind him. But he'd _also_ promised himself he'd make Rumlow pay for dragging Steve through a personal, vicious hell that he'd _never_ deserved. But the lines were blurring, and Bucky knew his time was up. He could get away with being here for as long as he wanted, but the longer he looked at Rumlow's scarred, mangled face, the more his resolve wavered, and he couldn't let that happen. He had to be satisfied with this... _just this_...just this _tiny_ morsel of revenge. A few hours of pain to try and make up for the _months_ of agony he'd put Steve through. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't enough, but Bucky would have to live with it.

He turned, slipping towards the door, leaving the morphine that dulled Rumlow's pain to a muted throb on it's lowest setting, leaving him staring after him, the drugged glaze over his eyes clearing; giving way to _unbearable_ agony. It was already setting in- the ache that would transform into a burning, _twisting_ pain that would tear at every mending bone and shattered joint in his body. The pain that would blank out his mind to a blinding, searing white, setting him clenching his teeth until they cracked and-

"Steve's- _mine..."_

Bucky stopped dead. The hair on the back of his neck lifted, the corners of his vision darkening as he could hear every beat of his heart _slamming_ in his ears. His hands, already clenching into fists, shook by his sides, fingernails digging crescents into the palm of his right hand. _He was going to kill him._ He was going to reach in, and _rip_ his tongue out of his filthy mouth for _daring_ to lay some kind of claim to Steve. He was going to-

Bucky turned back, his gaze fixing on Rumlow. Brock stared back at him, lips parted, breathing raggedly, as though even the effort of pushing the words past his lips had drained the energy from his body. But his eyes were already bright with pain, the traces of morphine moving too quickly through his body, the occasional amount released into his system not enough to replace it. And suddenly the rage in Bucky's chest burned out, leaving in its wake a calm that spread numbing tendrils through his heart and mind, soothing away the murderous actions that hung in potentia.  

"Actually..." Bucky breathed, the heavy footfalls thumping over the floor once more as Bucky strode to the side of Rumlow's bed, his chin lifted, the frightening calm settled over his dark features. "Steve's _his."_ Abruptly the calm shattered into vicious intensity, and he stooped, his mouth tucking against Rumlow's ear once more, voice lowering to a deadly whisper right against his burned skin. "But he loves _me."_  

And suddenly, as quickly as he'd come, Bucky left, leaving Rumlow frozen, and shocked.

He could feel his pain slowly mounting, his blood racing, every inch of his mangled skin burning as the pain set deeper, and _deeper,_ twisting into his bones and _flaring_ into white hot lines of agony. His eyes slid to the monitor, to the single, green bar that showed the inconsequential amount of the drug that was making its way into his system, before his gaze dragged up to the clock on the wall. And Rumlow realized, with a sick _twist_ in the pit of his gut, that it would be _seven hours_ before anyone would find him. 

-.-

By the time Bucky slipped out of the hospital, he felt like his teeth would shatter. His jaw clenched so tightly it made his entire head throb, his right palm stinging from the thin cuts his overlong fingernails had pressed into his flesh. He wanted to _scream._  He wanted to hit something, because _it wasn't enough_. Images flashed through his mind; images of his former handler _hitting_ Steve, pinning him down- _hurting_ him. Images flashed of Steve's blood flecking a crisp white sheet as rough hands dug bruises into his skin, wet lips whispering filthy, degrading names in his ear. His stomach twisted with nausea and Bucky swallowed hard, tasting bile in his mouth. He couldn't chase the thoughts from his head, couldn't shake the image of Steve in pain; abused, _humiliated._ He couldn't shake the total _helplessness_ he felt.

Because it was _never_ going to be enough.

Bucky would live his whole life with this sitting on his chest. Even if he _had_ killed Rumlow, the images wouldn't have gone away, it wouldn't have undone what Steve had been through, and Bucky could never change that. But he _could_  change himself.

 _He'd done it._ He looked Rumlow square in the eye, and he hadn't killed him. And if Bucky could decide to not kill _Rumlow,_ he could decide not to kill _anyone._ He didn't have to be a monster- _a murderer._ Even if he wasn't what Steve deserved now, there was a chance he could be, that he could be _better,_ and _someday_ deserve the love Steve gave him so openly. 

Bucky dragged in a steadying breath, and walked away from the hospital, leaving it, and Rumlow behind.

He'd finished what he needed to do, and now now he could go back to Steve.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting down to the end here guys. You can expect one chapter, and maybe a short epilogue after this, so I hope its been worth it, you're all amazing! :D


	12. Rogers Residence 2300 Hours

Bucky made his way up through the inside of Steve's apartment building, ghosting through the halls like a shadow. He'd been coming here for two months now, and Steve was the only living soul in the entire building who'd ever laid eyes on him. Two months, slipping in and out; weekly, nightly. Two months and no one had spotted him, mostly because he never stopped; one place one second, somewhere entirely different the next. _Two months_ , and for the first time Bucky stopped. 

His feet dragged to a halt in the hallway just outside Steve's door, his eyes catching on his reflection in the nice, wide mirror mounted on the wall to make the hallway seem more spacious than it really was. Bucky faltered, something tugging in the pit of his stomach. He didn't usually look at himself in a mirror. He tended to lose touch when he looked at himself, wondering why he didn't look on the _outside_ the way he felt on the _inside._  He disconnected. And if he'd learned anything, it was that when he disassociated, he was at his most dangerous. So by a rule of thumb, Bucky avoided mirrors; until just now.

He swallowed hard, staring evenly at his reflection, his reflection staring back at him like a goddamn  _joke_. He looked _nothing_ like the way he felt. He looked- he- he wasn't sure, but it was different from how he'd _ever_ looked in the past. After leaving the hospital, Bucky had taken what little cash he had and gone to a thrift store. He kept his head low, sorting through racks of clothing until he found what he wanted: A pair of fitted, dark washed jeans, and a dark olive button up that he could push the sleeves up to the elbows, and leave the top button undone. He'd kept his interactions with the chatty cashier short, murmuring polite, non-descript, short answers before paying for his purchase and leaving. He'd found his way, on foot to a truck stop, locking one of the grungy shower stalls in the restroom and cleaning himself as thoroughly as he could in the cramped, dirty space. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than rinsing his body in a cold stream and scrubbing sand across his skin. He'd dressed in his new clothing, and stepped out of the stall, combing his fingers through his wet hair until it hung in heavy strands around his shoulders. He'd squeezed out traces of water, even stooping to lower his head under the hot hand dryer to speed the drying along. Normally, he wouldn't care, but tonight was different. Tonight he had to be perfect. Once dry, Bucky tugged his hair back, pulling it into a slightly crooked bun at the nape of his neck, and made his way, on silent feet, back to Steve's apartment.

Now, looking at himself in the mirror, Bucky wasn't _at all_ sure who he was.

He wasn't the grinning boy in the old photos Steve had showed him, with the short, neatly styled, chestnut hair and the bright gleam of life in his eyes. He wasn't the Soldier, with the dead expression, and the wiry beard that concealed his face. He was...someone _new..._ someone patched together of the broken pieces of his past selves. He wasn't the boy, or the soldier, but there were pieces of them _in_ him.

 

_He was Bucky._

He was Bucky, and he _wasn't_ a killer. He _loved_ Steve, and for some unfathomable reason, _Steve_ loved _him._ He didn't know how to trust, but he was learning how to feel happy. He didn't remember all of his life, but the important pieces were all there; waiting...just _waiting_ to be put together. And in a few moments, he would know whether or not the Bucky he saw in the mirror had a home. 

Bucky bit down on his lower lip, which he'd chewed ragged as he'd made his way to the apartment, his stomach twisting into a knot. Steve had said his offer would always stand; that Bucky could come back and decide to stay with him for good at _any time._ But ten hours ago he'd rejected him, and Bucky had _known_ that it had hurt. Regardless of what Steve said, Bucky _knew_ his rejection couldn't have been easy, and he only prayed Steve really  _had_  meant what he said. His sleek metal fingers tightened around the bouquet of flowers that he'd bought on an impulse from the front of a grocery store. That were -admittedly- a little sad, and frankly, he was't even sure if the gesture was appropriate, but it didn't matter. Steve didn't seem to mind even if he was wildly out of line. He was so gentle, and so patient that Bucky knew he could _never_ deserve him. But he was going to ask anyways. Deserving or not, he wanted to be with him. 

_His heart was racing._

It was ridiculous. He had seen Steve on _dozens_ of occasions now. He let himself into his home multiple times a week. Bucky _knew_ Steve loved him, knew he wanted him regardless of how little Bucky deserved it. So why was he so nervous? His mouth was dry, and sticky, and his right hand quivered slightly as he flexed it by his side; opening, and closing his fist feverishly. He just had to tell him. Just had to tell him that he wanted to be with him, _forever_ if Steve would have him; that he wanted _all_ that entailed. He just had to knock on the door, and _talk_ to him.

Bucky reached out, his stomach swooping sickly as he bare knuckles rested against the door.

_It wasn't hard. Just knock._

Bucky steeled his nerves, and tapped against the door.

-.-

Steve lay back on his couch, eyes fixed blankly on the t.v, trying to ignore the dully throbbing hole in his chest. He was _glad_ Bucky had made his own decision, he _really was_ , but it didn't erase the gutting stab of pain inside him. It stemmed mostly from worry. He wanted Bucky to be safe, and happy. He wanted to know that Bucky had a home, and a bed, and good food to eat. With him, Steve could ensure he had all of that; he could help Bucky recover, and _heal,_ he could offer him the same crucial support that _Sam_ had offered _him;_ the support that had helped drag him out of his potentially deadly depression. He wanted Bucky to have everything he needed, and if he was on his own, Steve could never know. He didn't know if Bucky was in a motel room, or an abandoned building. He didn't know if he had a roof over his head, or if he had anything to eat aside from the food Steve gave him. He didn't know if he was warm enough at night, or if he woke from nightmares _screaming,_ in a freezing sweat. 

_He wanted to be there for him._

Steve's eyes fell closed, the mutterings on the t.v. dimming out to white noise. _He just wanted to be there for him._  

A knock jerked Steve back from the dull haze of hurt, and concern, dragging him so fast back to the present he nearly got whiplash. He blinked his eyes open, his head throbbing in protest as he pushing himself up onto his elbows, slipping from the couch. He really _wasn't_ in the mood for company. He was tired, and disappointed, and worried, and he wanted to be alone. But if he'd learned anything, it was that, even if he didn't _think_ he wanted it, Sam or Natasha's company often dulled the pain, so he dragged himself to his feel, and pulled the door open.

Again, Bucky blindsided him. 

He had surprised him once within twenty four hours by coming in broad daylight. He'd surprised him _again_ by knocking. He had always just let himself in before, through the door or the kitchen window. On the odd occasion, he'd even slipped in through Steve's bedroom window, and Steve had awaken to find a warm, heavy body curled in along side his own. 

But now, Bucky stood on the stoop of his apartment, waiting to be invited in.

His clothing was clean, and neat. His hair had been washed and tied back at the nape of his neck with an elastic tie, a few strands escaping around his temples to feather his jaw. Bucky's metal hand was curled around a small bouquet of distressed carnations and garden daisies with red tipped petals, his fingers flexing nervously on the scraggly stems. He had his head bowed, plush lower lip caught between his teeth, worrying at the soft flesh as he waited.

When the sound of the opening door registered to his hyper-vigilant senses, Bucky jerked, his head snapping up, back straightening instinctively. His lip slid from between his teeth, tongue flickering out to anxiously wet his mouth.

Steve stood in the doorway, taken aback. "Hey Buck..." He said softly, still not sure how he should treat these unexpected breaks in Bucky's pattern. He _wanted_ him here. _Always._ But he'd grown accustom to the way things had been over the past few months, had grown accustom to Bucky being a creature of habit, and the irregularities in that pattern stirred mixed senses of hope and concern. Steve's gaze flickered over his lover, searching for anything that might suggest something was wrong. But he was met only with fresh clothing, and a bouquet of grocery store flowers. 

Bucky licked his lips again, feverish, _nervous,_ his heart racing in his chest. "Hey Stevie..." He breathed, the old nickname sounding strange, but right, rolling off his tongue. And sudden, his anxiousness peeked into action. As though by a snap decision, Bucky's hand flashed up, _thrusting_ the flowers against Steve's chest in a near-panicked gesture. The plastic wrapping crinkled against his shirt, a small shower of loose petals floating down across Steve's socked feet as the blossoms were crushed against him. "Here-"  Bucky drew away as though the flowers were hot, his hands flexing by his sides as Steve caught the small bundle against himself, blinking in shock.

"Oh-" The short syllable broke from Steve's throat, his hands curling around the crinkling plastic. His eyes darted from Bucky's flushed, anxious face, to the unexpected gift that had been thrust into his hands, and Steve couldn't suppress a smile. Decades ago, when they were both boys, innocent, and ignorant, Bucky had brought him gifts. As soon as he'd been able to get work, Bucky would come home to him, day after day, sweaty, dirty, and _grinning,_ brandishing some little trinket he'd dragged back for him. A new pencil. A picture clipped from a discarded news paper. A watch someone had dropped down by the docks. Mere days before Steve had _dared_ to divulge his feelings for Bucky, he'd returned with a handful of coarse wildflowers, flourishing them with a cheeky grin. At the time, with the nervousness sitting heavy in his gut, Steve had just scoffed playfully, asking if Bucky was gonna get sweet on him now. Bucky had flushed from his neck to his ears, pushing the flowers against his skinny chest and muttering a _'just take the damn flowers Rogers, I can't bring you fancy stuff all the time.'_ And then he'd stalked away, but Steve had seen him barely suppressing a smile. His hands had flexed at his sides just as they were doing now.

Steve slowly moved the flowers so that they weren't smothered against his chest, a little smile gracing his lips as he tenderly uncrinkled the plastic, his soft blue eyes lifting up to his Bucky. "Thank you, Buck...Y'didn't have to do this." Bucky's shoulders drew up slightly, his chin tipping a little further down, but his mouth twitched just faintly at Steve positive acknowledgment, and the blond ducked his chin subtly. "You want to come in?"

Bucky lifted his eyes, drawing a breath and giving a shallow nod. He'd been waiting for the invitation. If he was going to ask Steve to take him, he needed to stop letting himself in. He needed to come in through the door, _invited,_ like a normal person; like a _normal_ part of Steve's life.

Steve led the way into his apartment, still a little baffled. But Bucky's behavior, though unusual, didn't seem _bad,_ so Steve let the situation unfold, let Bucky do with this what he wanted. He was sure he'd understand eventually. While Bucky took his shoes off at the door, Steve stepped into the kitchen, piecing around until he found something to use to keep the flowers in. He eventually settled on a tall plastic pitcher full of water. Once he'd carefully arrange the awkwardly presented gift in their make-shift vase, Steve walked back into the living room, his socked feet whispering across the thick carpet. Bucky was waiting for him, still looking stiff and uncomfortably, his hands clasped in front of him, head lowered cautiously. Steve couldn't help but smile. He didn't care what had happened, what they'd been through, or what either of them had done in the past. He loved him. He loved him more than anything else on the goddamn _planet._

Not bothering to hide his faint smile, Steve slipped up to him, reaching out and gently brushing his hand over Bucky's arm, calling his attention, drawing his eyes up to his. "You alright?" He asked, moving in closer once Bucky had acknowledged his presence. He slipped in, his hands moving to frame Buck's waist as their hips rested together; forehead to forehead, _chest to chest._ Steve looked up at him through his impossibly long, dark lashes, his lips drawn up into a reassuring smile, blue eyes soft, and _warm._

Bucky swallowed, nodding shallowly. Steve was always so worried for him, always so concerned. Every time he broke pattern, Steve asked him if he was alright; if he was hurt. Every time they lay on the couch, or on Steve's bed, kissing, and stroking with reverent hands, Steve would ask him if he was comfortable; if he _wanted_ this. Each new thing coaxed a tender prompt. _'Do you like this?' 'Do you want me to keep going' 'Tell me if you need to stop.'_  Steve concerned himself so much with Bucky's comfort, his _pleasure,_ that it made Bucky go weak. He wanted his constant affirmation. He wanted to know that he was safe, content, and unharmed. Bucky's gaze flickering up to Steve's eyes, reading his relief at the tiny nod, before dropping to his mouth, shamelessly drinking in the supple, delicate curve of his perfectly pink lips. His hand slipped up between them, metal fingers brushing over Steve's lips, the metal smooth, and cold against his warm flesh. "I wanted to ask you something..." He murmured, his voice low, and soft, fingers still tracing the set of his mouth.

Steve's eyelids fluttered, and he moved to catch Bucky's hand in his own, holding it close as he laid a tender kiss against the tips of his metal fingers. _"Anything..."_ Steve breathed, feeling Bucky's nose brush against his, intoxicatingly close, filling his nostrils with his scent, his touch crackling through Steve like electric. Bucky's fingers slid back to card through his short blond strands. 

Bucky's breath caught, the air hanging between then in weighted silence. Steve's breath was warm against his lips, his fingers resting delicately over his hand as Bucky tangled it through his hair. He could feel his heartbeat against his. He could feel the words forming behind his lips. "You said..." Bucky started haltingly, Steve's eyes lifting affectionately to his. "You said that whenever I was ready, I could come back...You said no matter how long that was...that you were still gonna want me..." Bucky faltered, his mouth tightening, and Steve could feel his brow draw into a knot, his jaw flexing in a moment of tension. "I- don't understand that." He managed, the words a little strangled, voice stiff, and raw. "I don't understand why you _want_ me...or how you could ask me to be a part of your life...Just like that..."

_"Buck-"_ Steve protested softly, but Bucky made a soft sound in the back of his throat, easing closer as though to cut Steve off. 

"I _know_...that I don't deserve you..." He pressed on, his eyes lifting, locking evenly with Steve's, open, and deadly serious. "I've done things that I'm _never_ going to be able to forgive myself for- I'm _never_ going to be worth everything you've given me...Everything you've let me _have_ with you..." Bucky could see hurt flash deep in Steve's expression, his mouth going slack as he stared at him, and Bucky could see what his words did to him. He didn't _want_ to hurt him. He _knew_ Steve didn't believe about him what _he_ did, but it didn't mean it wasn't _true._ Steve's faith in him didn't make him a saint. His love didn't absolve him of the terrible things he had done. But his love _was_ making him better. It was making him want to be more than the killer he was. 

"I don't know why you want me..." He said again, softly, now, his gaze lowering, Steve's fingers tightening over his. He swallowed hard, heart pounding against his ribs. "I _know_ I'm broken, and I don't remember everything. I _know_ you deserve better, but...if you really meant what you said..." Steve's breath caught. "Would you take me back?"

Steve felt his heart forcing its way up his throat, his lungs freezing in his chest. _He couldn't breath._ All the air had been sucked from the room, and all that mattered was Bucky. _Bucky,_ asking him if he would have him. _Bucky_ saying he wanted to stay with him, _be_ with him. _Forever._ He could feel himself staring, but he could force his body to move, his eyes stayed rooted on Bucky's expression, mouth slack, muscles frozen.

"Steve?" Bucky whispered, his voice suddenly weakening, wavering at the end of the single word. 

_He should have known better._

_He never should have asked._

_He should have never thought he was allowed to be loved._

Steve blinked rapidly, as though yanked from a daze, and he suddenly dragged in a breath, his eyes flashing with clarity. _"Yes-"_ He blurted shortly, letting out the word in a ragged exhale of relief. "Yes- _yes,_ Buck- _of course!"_ The heavy breath turned into a weak laugh, his eyes bright, mouth turning up in a smile that showed every ounce of the burning, aching love inside him. Reaching forward, Steve took Bucky's face in his hands, feeling his jaw, smooth, and clean-shaven under his palms, his face heating at Steve's touch.

Bucky's breath hitched in his chest as Steve drew him in, his mind a cacophony of noise until the second Steve pulled his mouth against his. And then everything went silent. Bucky loved that Steve could do that to him; that his thoughts could be screaming in his head, deafening him, and ripping his mind raw, and one kiss from Steve sucked all the noise from his thoughts. His head went still, and silent. Peaceful. Devoid of anything but _Steve._ He shifted into the kiss, dipping slightly as his knees went weak with relief. _Steve wanted him_. God- He really _wanted_ him! 

Steve deepened the kiss softly, his chest _bursting_ with happiness that Bucky wanted to stay, and _searing_ with pain from what Bucky thought of himself. He pulled him tighter, one arm dragging their bodies firmly together, his chest constricted with agony. _How could Bucky think that everything that had happened was his fault?_ How could his beautiful, _perfect_ Bucky think he wasn't worth anything? That Steve deserved- or even _wanted_ anyone else? How could he think he could _ever_ be happy with anyone other than him?

He tipped his chin down with a soft gasp, carding his fingers through Bucky's hair, his heart so tight he felt like it would pop. "You don't have to ask me to take you back..." He breathed raggedly, his wet mouth still grazing Bucky's as he spoke. He swallowed hard, letting out a shuddering breath. "I never let go of you...not really..."

Bucky made a pained sound in the back of his throat, his frozen body finally responding, his hands coming up to curl feverishly into the front of Steve's shirt. 

Steve laid a kiss to his mouth, breathing heavily as he nuzzled softly against him, soothing his fingers down his back, his opposite hand stroking over his hair. "Never wanted anyone else.. _.Just you_ -" He whispered, his voice wavering as his throat tightened. " _Just you..."_ His chin tipped forward, capturing Bucky's mouth against his, and this time, Bucky had the presence of mind to lean into it, his head shifting to the side as he allowed Steve's tongue to play along the seam of his lips, dipping tenderly into his mouth. He whimpered into the kiss, weak at the knees, suddenly overwhelmed by Steve's affection. Completely overcome by the raw, _unconditional_ love he was being given so freely. 

His hands tightened in Steve's shirt, his body pressing forward needily, and he broke the kiss with a pitching gasp. He blinked rapidly, looking up at Steve with a desperation so sharp, and raw, it made Steve's heart skip in his chest. "Take me..." Bucky pleaded raggedly, pressing forward, and Steve faltered.

"Bucky-" He started, both hands moving to tenderly grasp Bucky's upper arms, holding him close, and gentle, trying to sooth the keen desperation in his expression. _"You can stay. "_ Steve assured him softly, looking him in dead in the eye. "I've already told you, you can stay for however long you want, you don't need to ask me again..."

"No-" Bucky broke out abruptly, his cheeks darkening, and as Steve looked him in the eyes, he could see how far his pupils had dilated. " _Take me."_

Steve felt like he'd been punched in the head. The look in Bucky's eye couldn't be more clear, but the intention behind them still threw Steve. Until now, Steve had let Bucky control everything they did, he let him be the dominant force, because Bucky _needed_ it. He _needed_ to know he was allowed to have control of his own life- his own decisions. It had been essential to his healing. But now, Bucky was looking up at him with an aching, razor sharp longing, his face tipped up, exposing his vulnerable throat submissively.

_He wanted Steve to take him._ Bucky wanted to give up the control Steve had given him so freely. He wanted to take the power and give it back to him, show him that he didn't need it anymore; that he _trusted_ him. As his memories came back, Bucky remembered not only what _he'd_ done, but what had _been_ done to him as well. He remembered being used over the decade. _The perfect toy._ Submissive, and powerless; forced to do anything that was demanded of him without protest. There were thing that had been done that Bucky wished he would have never remembered. He was damaged, and his heart and mind were scared from the abuse, but he _trusted_ Steve. He trusted him not to take advantage of the control Bucky was relinquishing to him. Because this time, Bucky was giving up his power willingly. He was putting himself in Steve's hands, and knowing he wouldn't be hurt.  

_They needed everything about each other._

Steve had needed to be handled with love and care, to help him recover from the unrelenting abuse he'd suffered at Rumlow's hands. He needed to be shown that intimacy didn't have to be painful, that it didn't have to be wrenched from him unwillingly. He needed to see that he was allowed to feel _pleasure_ with his partner, instead of being used like a toy for the other's enjoyment and nothing else. Bucky had needed to see that he was allowed to be in control of his own decisions. He needed to know that he could make choices about his own body an actions; that he could take back the power of his free will that had been stripped from him at every turn. He needed to know he could use the hands that had only ever see murder, and blood, as something to bring gentleness, and pleasure, and healing. 

Now, Bucky _wanted_ to submit himself to Steve. And _Steve-_ Steve just needed to be close to him.

Steve's fingers curled to softly frame his jaw, tipping Bucky's face up to his as he stared at him, raw, and open, his heart suddenly racing at the explicit invitation. He leaned in, catching Bucky's mouth against his own, his touch growing firm, and sure, but still achingly tender. Slowly, he pushed forward, guiding Bucky backwards until his back hit the living room wall with a muffled _thump,_ the couch side end table rattling softly at the vibration. He pressed him flush against the wall, breaking the kiss with a gasp, his lashes lowered, mouth parted, and wet. His chest was heaving. 

"Are you sure?" He murmured against his mouth, one hand still framing his jaw, the other holding to his waist, keeping Bucky's hips drawn against his own. 

Bucky nodded with a ragged, gasping breath, his body prickling with urgency and want as Steve pressed in on him; warm, and solid, and real. _"Yes-"_ He breathed, the words tight, and desperate. "Take me...Please- _please_ Steve-" He arched into his firm touch and Steve made a soothing sound in the back of his throat, his hand on his jaw growing soft, stroking his face tenderly. Bucky swallowed back a whimper of need, a shudder running up his spine as Steve held him, stroking his face, his mouth brushing his. "I trust you..." Bucky breathed, and Steve's mouth turned up in a soft smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling just the way Bucky remembered; just the way he'd always loved. 

"Alright..." Steve whispered soothingly. "Alright...Its okay...I'm gonna take care of you...Just relax...relax for me Buck..." His mouth touched Bucky's tenderly, kissing him lightly; once, twice, three time. He feathered a soft kiss to his cheek, before tipping Bucky's face down to brush his lush pink lips over Bucky's vulnerable eyelids, feeling his lashes quivering under the touch. "Relax..." He whispered against his skin, kissing up to his forehead. Bucky was still trembling in his arms, so desperate, so overwhelmed that Steve _actually_ loved him. He _loved_ him; and it was almost more than Bucky could take. 

Steve kissed over Bucky's skin; his cheeks, his temples, and jaw. He kissed his jaw, and throat, working his mouth against Bucky's neck, feeling his pulse just under his lips, fluttering; erratic. Slowly, Steve let his hands slid lower, rubbing over the outside of his thigh, pressing deeper against his neck as his hand wandered to the inside of his leg, brushing upwards, drawing a tight moan from Bucky's lips. "Shhh..." Steve hushed him softly, Bucky's head dropping back, exposing the whole, vulnerable length of his throat, his eyes falling closed. "It's okay..." He murmured tenderly, his fingers dragging up over the front of Bucky's jeans, and he could feel the hardness of his erection; his length twitching under the stimulation. Steve hummed, low in the back of his throat, licking a hot, wet streak up to Bucky's ear, taking the lobe between his lips and sucking lightly, teasing ever so gently with his teeth. Bucky was trusting him to take control of the situation. He was letting Steve see him at his most vulnerable point, and letting go of his fear. And Steve was going to make it good for him. But he needed Bucky to relax. 

He was thrumming with energy, and desperate tension, yearning for Steve's touch, arching against him to press their bodies more fully together. He needed _more;_ faster, _harder,_ but Steve didn't want to take him hard. Bucky needed to be treated with the same tenderness he'd offered Steve when he was broken, and afraid. He needed to be taken gently,  _intimately,_ until he forgot that he'd ever been hurt in the first place. He needed to show Bucky that his trust wasn't a mistake; that he _loved_ him. _That he'd never hurt him._ Steve stroked Bucky's body through his clothing, rocking their hips together, slow, and gentle, until the shudders eased, and Bucky went soft in his hands. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, pressing his tongue over his pulse point and tugging a weak, soft moan from Bucky's parted lips. His face had gone slack with pleasure, eyes closed, cheeks pink. His knees were weak underneath him, and he let Steve's weight keep him held up against the wall, indulging in the solid warmth of Steve's body, drinking in having as much of Steve touching him as possible. Steve slotted his knee between Bucky's thighs, nudging his legs apart as his fingers slid down, deftly undoing his lover's belt. His hands slipped under the material, pushing the tight, dark jeans down around his powerful thighs before letting them drop around his ankles, his fingers dragging back up over his crotch. Bucky little gasp of pleasure suddenly morphed into a full throated whimper, and his hips bucked forward, his cock aching, boxers already dampened with dark spots of pre-come.

"Steve-" He choked, pressing into Steve's warm palm against his cock, the raw, trembling desperation overtaking him again, but Steve merely made a soothing sound in the back of his throat. He kissed the side of Bucky's neck, stroking his cock through the thin material, soft, and maddeningly light; feeling it twitch and harden under his fingertips. Bucky was quivering with need, his eyes closed, lips parted desperately, and Steve finally gave in. 

In one, smooth movement, Steve slid Bucky's shirt off over his head, stripping off his own as well and tossing them aside before shifting back in, slow, and sinuous, watching Bucky from under sinfully lowered lashes, He reached up, both palms dragging flat over his lover's rugged, defined muscles, tracing over his pecs, feeling his nipples, drawn tight under his touch. He purred in pleasure, pressing in as he circled Bucky's nipples with his thumbs, feeling them stiffen, watching as Bucky's cheek washed with pink, his jaw dropping in a soundless gasp of arousal. Bucky's hands fell back, finger tips pressing into the wall, trying to anchor himself. He didn't dare touch. He wanted Steve to do _whatever_ he wanted with him. He wanted to trust him with that. And despite how badly he ached for more, Steve hadn't given him reason to regret his trust. He just needed to be patient. Steve moved closer, his mouth once against latching onto the side of Bucky's throat, sucking a blossom of color onto his skin as his hands dragged down Bucky's abs, feeling the ridges and bumps of his steely muscle before they slid around to his spine and down the back of his boxers. He smoothed over the tender flesh before his grip tightened, groping into his firm ass, tugging a gasp from Bucky's lips. He arched in against him, whimpering as Steve slid his boxers off, dropping them to the floor.

_He felt deliciously exposed._

Bucky stood against the wall, naked, and vulnerable. He could feel Steve's clothing brushing against his skin, the stiff bulge in the front of his jeans scrapping across Bucky's exposed, hypersensitive cock. _God_ he was _aching._ He needed this- needed it so bad- everything Steve would give him. But Steve was being painfully tender, and every moment pushed Bucky's desperation to a higher peek. He needed him- he _needed_ him. 

Steve's hands slid from his ass to his thighs and suddenly, the breath was snatched from his lungs as he hefted Bucky up, pulling his bare legs around his waist with firm hands, pinning his weight to the wall. Adrenaline crashed through Bucky's body, his arousal spiking as Steve lifted him effortlessly, cradling his solid, muscular body between himself and the wall as though he weighed no more than a rag doll. His huge, strong arms were firm under his ass and thighs, grip pressing faint bruises into his skin. He pinned Bucky to the wall holding him up as he kissed and sucked at his neck; raw, hungry sounds rumbling from deep in his chest. Steve had been a passive player for so long that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in control. He'd spent so long being forced into submission, and being used, that he hardly remembered what it was like to used his own strength to its full extent to make his partner feel good. Because for Steve it was all about Bucky, and if he could use his power to pleasure him, he damn well would. 

Steve's hand found the container of Vaseline that had remained on the end table since their first time together, holding Bucky steady with one arm under his thighs. His weight was solid, and real, and it sent a burn through Steve's muscles, but he didn't care. This was right where he wanted him. Bucky wanted him to take him, and Steve intended to do just that. _Slowly,_ forcefully, in all the ways he knew Bucky loved. He twisted the lid of deftly, slicking his fingers and sliding them up between the cleft of Bucky's perfectly firm ass. 

Bucky's breath caught as Steve's finger pressed, slow, and firm against his entrance, testing the tightness of his muscles, feeling out how careful he would need to be. He shuddered his hips trying to press down, trying to fuck himself on Steve's finger, but Steve made a low sound in the back of his throat, and Bucky's throat knotted in a whimper, his arms twisting around Steve's neck. He clung to him, powerless, and exposed, and absolutely _desperate_ for more. And as Bucky pressed into him, Steve pressed upwards, breaching his lovers body with the tip of his slicked finger. Bucky groaned, his forehead pressing into the crook of Steve's neck, panting against his skin, his lips twitching in silent, half-formed words as his body stretched and burned around the intrusion. Steve pressed deeper. The spasmodic twinge of pain that shocked up Bucky's spine wrenched a whimper from his lips, his body aching as it automatically tried to resist the penetration, but Steve coaxed tenderly at the tension, just rubbing the inside of his rim, loosening him up; making room for his fingers inside his body.

Steve worked on him, slow, and insistent, his movements embodying power, and control, every twist and crook, and press of his fingers firm, and laced with intent. Bucky was trembling in his arms, clinging to Steve like a life-line, panting and gasping, his flushed, red cock smearing pre-come across his and Steve's chest. The intrusion was just on the right side of pain, his body burning as Steve slid a second finger into the tight, greedy, wet heat of Bucky's body. 

Breathing raggedly, Steve turned his face in against Bucky's ear, mouth open, eyes closed. "There-" He breathed, licking over his ear with a heady moan. "There- there- just like that- _god-_ Buck...You feel so good- _You're so good..._ Fuck _...Fuck_ you're so tight- Bucky you're _perfect."_ He praised, nibbling at his neck, his third finger pressing at his rim, testing the stretched muscle. "So good...I love you... _god Buck._..I love you _so much,_ you're-" 

Bucky's hands came up, and dragged Steve's mouth against his. He kissed him ravenously, his hip rolling down to push Steve's fingers deeper, and he muffled his choking gasp into Steve's mouth, his eyes stinging. Bucky's muscles were quivering with delicious, hot tension, their chest slick with sweat and pre-come, and heat raced up and down Bucky's spine. He was so close already. He needed Steve- needed more- He pushed deeper, letting Steve hold him up against the wall as he fucked himself on Steve's fingers, shaking, quivering. Steve crooked his finger, grazing over Bucky's prostate, and Bucky lost it. 

He cried out into Steve's mouth, his cock pulsing between them, splattering Steve's chest with thick streaks of white; hot and wet. He slumped forward, shaking, clutching his neck, his eyes closed as he panted against Steve's damp skin. 

But Steve knew better than to think this was over. Bucky was still trembling with desperation. He'd just taken then edge off, and Steve wanted to give him so much more. 

Steve gather Bucky against him. His fingers slide out of his wet, slicked ass, leaving him gaping, and open, and Bucky let a broken whimper fall from his lips. "Shhh..." Steve whispered, cradling him close, slowly drawing him away from the wall. "Shhh...It's alright...We're not done yet...We're not done, _I promise_...I'm gonna take good care of you...come on..." He breathed, hearing Bucky's soft, ragged breathing in his ear, feeling his tiny, wrecked nod of affirmation. Bucky clung to his neck as Steve settled him closer, taking him fully into his arms and carrying him the few short yard to his bedroom.

The room was dark, but Steve didn't bother with the lights. There was just enough spilling from the cracked bathroom door to allow him to see his lover. He carried Bucky's trembling figure to the bed, slowly easing him back, and coming down slowly on top of him. Bucky's cheeks were washed with heat, his eyes closed, messy chest heaving. His head was still spinning from the intoxicating waves of pleasure, but his cock was still achingly hard, lifted in a perfect, study curve to just under his navel. Steve stared down at him, his chest tightening as he reached up to stroke over his sweaty hair, freeing it from the knotted bun at the base of his neck and letting it spill out onto the pillow around his head like a halo. He carded his fingers through it, settled comfortably on Bucky's chest as he waited from him to come down. He wanted Bucky's explicit consent before he went any further, and Bucky was so blissed out Steve doubted he could even _hear_ him, much less think to consciously consent. 

"Bucky..." He whispered tenderly, smiling as little as he feathered a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth, a soft huff of air escaping against his lips. "Bucky...Come on...look at me...look at me sweetheart..." Bucky's eyelids twitched, and then opened, his eyes glassy. Bucky looked completely, and utterly _overwhelmed,_ and for the first time, Steve felt a twinge of uncertainty. Because maybe Bucky wanted it, but what if it was too much? Bucky was staring at him, his eyes laced with something Steve couldn't read. His looked stunned, lost, and _completely_ overcome. Bucky's psyche was delicate, and Steve knew even his love could push him too far. The little smile fell from his lips, suddenly replaced with concern, and Steve shifted up, easing closer as his fingers stilled through his hair. "Bucky?" He breathed, his worry evident, Bucky's eyes still distant, and disconnected. "Bucky...are you okay? Just tell me you're alright...please...I don't wanna hurt you..."

Just once, Bucky blinked, slow, sluggish; then once more, and the haze cleared from his eyes. He looked up at Steve, the look of stunned confusion sharpening in his gaze, growing brutally acute. "You really love me..." It was caught between a statement and a question, and Steve suddenly felt like he'd taken a knife to the gut. Because that's why Bucky was so overcome. Believing Steve loved him was so _huge,_ so _impossible_ that he couldn't wrap his head around it. He couldn't quite make himself believe that anyone could _really_ love him but he wanted it- _god-_ he wanted Steve's love more than anything, even though he couldn't accept how freely it was being given to him. He was caught in a paradox, holding the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world, and feeling to broken, to dirty to ever deserve to touch it. Steve should know. _He felt exactly the same way._

A soft sound slipped from Steve's lips, and he curled in against him, his soft, pink mouth finding Bucky's in a tender kiss. His lashes brushed his lover's cheeks, one hand stroking reassuringly over his ribs. "Of course I do..." Steve whispered against his mouth, feeling Bucky's brow draw into a tight frown, his lips twitching under his as though to protest. _I don't deserve this._ His hands moved to Steve's waist, cautious, and unsure. _I'm dirty_. They rested against his skin. _You doesn't really want me._

Steve exhaled against his mouth, stroking through Bucky's hair, rubbing his palm along his muscular side. "I've _always_ loved you Buck..." He murmured, kissing him again, trying to coax the tension out of his mouth. "Even when loving you hurt so bad I thought it was going to kill me...Even when we were kids...Even when I thought you were dead...I've _always_ loved you." His tone grew even, and firm, and Steve drew back just enough to look Bucky dead in the eye. "Nothing else matters...I have you back now...Nothing in the world can change that..."

Bucky lay under him, conflicted, tormented, his eyes laced with indecision and pain. He stared up at Steve with wide eye and slightly parted lips; raw and vulnerable. Slowly, Bucky moved, lifted one hand to just brush over the front of Steve's throat, metal tracing skin; blood hot against steel cold. Steve's eyelids fluttered, Bucky's every touch a blessing he could have never _dared_ to hope for. He should have never been lucky enough to have this again. He didn't deserve it. But he would indulge in every tiny blessing Bucky gave him.

Bucky's fingers traced up over his jaw, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips as he tried to haltingly articulate the words in his mind. _You're a monster. You don't deserve to be loved. Murderer. Freak._ "Someday..." Bucky rasped, his voice tight, and strangled, trying to shove back the screaming in his head, the voices that made him feel broken, and worthless. _"Someday_ I'm going to believe you..."

Steve's chest tightened, and a pained little smile touched the corners of his mouth, his eyes flashing with love, and pain. His love...His beautiful, broken Bucky...His fingers dragged softly over Bucky's scalp, opposite hand stilling on his ribs as he settled gently in against him, Bucky's bare legs still framing his waist. "I know..." He murmured, breath warm on his lips. "I know...Someday... _I'm_ gonna believe you're really _here..._ that you're _alive_...that you remember me and I'm allowed to have you...that I'm allowed to see you...touch you..." His voice lowered, thickening with emotion, and arousal, his pupils blow out to swallow the blue of his irises under his dark lashes. " _I'm gonna help you."_ He breathed, low, and purposeful. "I'm gonna help you believe me...no matter how long that takes."

Bucky shuddered, his hands sliding from Steve's neck to his waist, and he pressed up into the touch, eyes falling closed. He nodded helplessly, his lips twitching, half-formed words abruptly dying in his throat as Steve shifted his hips forward, the scrape of denim on his sensitive cock almost more than he could stand. "Yeah-" He choked, the word dropping from his lips with a gasp. 'Yeah- yeah- good...show me...god- Steve- show me- _take me_ -" Steve's wet, open mouth dragged down the side of Bucky's neck, kissing, and sucking at the tender flesh. His hands slid back, slowly working his jeans off his hips as he sucked a dark, blossoming bruise just over Bucky's clavicle. He ran his tongue over the mark, kissing it, licking long, and slow up the front of his throat. His jeans slipped off the edge of the bed. Bucky whined, his bare, powerful thighs tightening around Steve's waist, suddenly desperate. Steve's perfect body was separated from his by one thin layer of material. He could feel his thick, heavy cock bulging in the boxer, rubbing against his own as Steve rocked their hips together, and Bucky's whimper broke desperately. 

"Please Steve-" He cracked, arching against him, his arms dragging Steve full body against him, messy chests flush together. 

Steve chuckled in his ear, low, and sensual, enough to make Bucky positively throb with arousal. The soft laugh was deep as sin, and all Bucky wanted was to hear that voice whispering filthy things in his ear as he fucked him until he couldn't see straight. Steve's hands caught at the waistband of his boxer, and he drew them off his hips; slow, and seductive, and Bucky whimpered with pleasure as Steve's massively thick cock came to rest right along his own. He could feel Steve's blood hot length brushing against his own, the light bumps, and nudges suddenly turning to a grind as Steve rutted against him. He caught Bucky's mouth, muffling the helpless whimper of arousal in a deep, heady kiss as he dragged their hips together, the friction making Bucky weak. He was coiled tighter than a spring, already _desperate_ for release. Steve was patient, he could reign himself back again and again if need be, but not Bucky. Bucky's body thrummed with raw need, his nerves crackling with arousal, seeking relief from the burning, _throbbing_ ache in his cock. _More-_ he needed _more,_ he needed-

Steve's huge hand curled around both of their cocks at once, dragging them together, and beginning to pump his fist over them. His mouth crushed against Bucky's, swallowing his helpless whimpers, and cries of pleasure. Bucky's body tightened. Steve dragged his hand along their lengths faster, Bucky's cock jerking in his grip, dribbling precome all over his hand, dripping down his wrist. He squirmed, breaking the kiss with a gasp, his hands flying to anchor himself on Steve's shoulders. _"Steve-"_ He gasped, Steve's eyes lifting to him with a sinful glint as he twisted his wrist at the head, and Bucky saw white. He dropped his head back, chocking out a cry, his head spinning; body wracked with shudders.

And suddenly the stimulation was gone.

Bucky almost cried aloud, his eyes flashing open, snapping desperately to Steve, but his lover just smiled; warm and achingly tender, touching his lips with his own. "Not yet..." He murmured soothingly. "Not yet Buck...just wait...a little bit longer...wanna be in you...wanna feel how hot, and tight you are around me- god- Buck- you were always _so_ fucking _tight-"_ He panted, pressing closer now, mouth dragging across his jaw to his ear, sucking on the blood-hot skin as Bucky's face flushed scarlet. "So good...You aways felt _so good_ , I've missed that-" His hands moved to his thighs- "Missed _you-_ God- I've fucking _missed you-_ " Steve's cock slid thickly between the cheeks of Bucky's ass, and the dark haired man shuddered as it nudged against the tight knot of muscle hidden in the cleft of his body. His arms tightened around Steve, clinging to his neck, clutching him; tense and thrilled all at once- waiting. _Desperate._  

"Just tell me..." Steve breathed in his ear, his voice dripping with arousal, low, and husky. Bucky could feel a faint quiver deep in his muscles. Restraint. Strained patience. "Just tell me if you want it- want _me-_ wanna make you feel so good Buck...Wanna take care of you...just tell me.. _.tell me..."_

A low moan slipped from Bucky's lips, Steve rocking against him, slow, and needy. His words were hot, and heady in his ear; the perfect mixture of dirty talk, and tender, _desperate_ need for his absolute and uninhibited consent. _Perfect._ Steve was so fucking _perfect._ Bucky found himself nodding shakily, pressed into Steve's neck; panting, shaking. "Yes-" He whispered raggedly, the single word wrenching a low growl of pleasure from Steve. "Yes- Steve please- St- Steve- I want you...God- _Need_ you- please..." 

Steve's strong arm slid around the entirety of Bucky's lower back, fingers grasping into his waist, blunt fingernails digging crescents into his soft flesh. He drew Bucky up against him, and slowly rocked forward. The thick head of Steve's cock pressed against Bucky's entrance, still loose, and wet, slick with the Vaseline Steve had used to open him up minutes before. Bucky bit back a whimper, feeling him pressing in, closer- closer- his rim was stretching to take the head; _burning._ He let out a gasp, and the head slipped into the tight heat of his body. Steve groaned against his neck, his hips moving incessantly. Back and forth. Tiny, rocking motions. Enough to move his cock within the constriction of Bucky's body but not enough to push him too fast. He could feel his lover clenching around him, his ass fluttering around the penetration. Bucky's jaw was open against Steve's neck, soft, broken sounds slipping from his throat as he clung to him. 

_God_ Steve was _so fucking big._

Bucky had broken memories of the intimacy they had shared in the past; mostly flashes, images, feelings. But it was _nothing_ like he was experiencing now. What he remembered was disconnected and vague, like a story he'd been told of something that had once happened to someone he'd never met. Steve remembered. He remembered when they'd made out on Bucky's bed, grabbing and tugging hungrily at clothing until their bare bodies slid together; their breath tugged from their lungs in gasps and helpless giggles. He remembered the raw, anguished desperation that had laced their passion the night before Bucky shipped out; the night Steve realized he may never see him again. Steve remembered secret intimacy they'd shared in the barracks, the drunk kisses and messy hand jobs in the bar restroom; the nights in the cold european air with nothing but each others naked bodies to keep them warm. But not Bucky. To Bucky, it was all new, all fresh and unexplored. And he gave himself to Steve for the first time all over again. 

Steve began moving slowly, pushing deeper as Bucky adjusted to the thickness of his girth. He slid forward, deep and intimate, Bucky gasping as he pressed closer. Their wasn't a centimeter of space left between their bodies. Steve pressed into Bucky's neck, his arms tight around his waist and shoulders, dragging him close. Bucky clung to Steve's neck; desperate, and shaking. His thighs were trembling, aching, blood-red cock trapped between the tightened core of their abs, the friction drawing moans, and whimpers from his lips every time Steve rocked against him. He felt Steve's cock stretching him open, filling him to bursting. God- It _hurt-_ it hurt in all the _amazing, filthy_ ways Bucky couldn't quite remember. 

In one slow, dragging motion, Steve pulled all but the weeping head of his cock out of Bucky's body, before driving forward.

The breath left Bucky lungs. The entire length of Steve's thick, flushed cock pushed into him, his body drawing it in greedily, rim stretch white, and bloodless around the thickness of his shaft. Steve pulled out and thrust again, his hips falling into a rhythm, dragging, and pushing, sliding in and out of the gripping, velvety heat of his ass with every snap of his hips. Steve's grip tightened, digging bruises into Bucky's back and legs, his teeth scraping his vulnerable throat as Bucky dropped his head back with a cry. He pressed his lover deeper into the mattress, the sheets soaked around them, Bucky trembling under his hands. 

"God-" Steve gritted out through his teeth, Bucky's rim spasming around his cock, dragging a growl of pleasure from his lips. He turned his head in, sucking feverishly at Bucky earlobe, his pace relentless. "God Bucky- You're perfect- You're _perfect,_ you're so beautiful-" He whispered raggedly, gripping him closer, a whine pitching from his throat as he held his lost lover against him in a way he'd been afraid he'd never be able to again. He was here. He was really here, and despite everything, he _loved_ him. Steve crushed his mouth against Bucky's, kissing him desperately as his hips snapped forward, the still air in the bedroom suddenly filled with the wet slap of skin on skin as his thighs struck flush against Bucky's ass with each thrust. "Mhhh-" A moan choked in Steve's throat, swallowed up by Bucky's greedy mouth, hungrily working against his own. "Mhh- Buck- _Bucky-"_ He whispered brokenly, and Bucky's grip tightened on his shoulders. 

_"More-"_ Bucky whispered thickly, his eyes stinging, heart slamming in his ribcage. "More- Steve _please-"_ The words were bitten off as Steve caught Bucky's mouth against his own again, unable to stop. _He'd missed him too much._ There where too many years of lost kisses Steve needed to give him before he could be satisfied. He wanted to kiss Bucky for every moment they'd been apart. One for every instant that they should have laughed over a private joke. One for every meal Steve should have sat across from him, watching in dumbstruck love as Bucky spoke, unaware of Steve's tender attention. One for every night Steve had been forced to fall asleep alone, _aching_ for his Bucky's arms around him. There were so many kisses they should have shared that were lost, but Steve wanted to make them all up. Starting now. 

He feverishly kissed Bucky, feeling his desperation peeking, his body throbbing, cock aching inside the impossibly tight, wet heat of Bucky's perfect body. His tongue licked into Bucky's mouth, suddenly clumsy, and tactless, teeth clicking, and tongues clashing as his hips started to stutter, and break rhythm. _"Bucky-"_ He choked, clinging to him, trying to focus, trying to keep his thrusts even, and deep but they kept jerking spasmodically, his patience strained to its limit. Bucky had been given the benefit of having the edge taken off his raw desperation, but Steve had had no such privilege, and he'd been _aching_ since the moment he'd hauled Bucky's massively muscular thighs around his waist. 

Now, he was trembling just on the cusp, his stomach tight, abs twitching as his cock seared with an amazing, mind numbing burn of pleasure. Bucky was tense with desperation underneath him. His back frozen in an arch that pressed as much of his body as humanly possible against Steve. His expression was twisted with need, sweat glistening off his muscles and pale, scarred skin. His lips were flushed, and swollen, and wet as sin, his lashes kissing his cheekbones as he made the fucking _sweetest_ noises Steve had ever heard. Bucky wasn't articulate in bed, but the sounds he made hooked Steve's arousal, capturing his fascination and causing boiling heat to churn in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to see his face when he came, wanted to watch him go slack with pleasure, see what he could do to make his perfect, sweet Bucky feel good. 

"Bucky-" Steve managed through his teeth, his jaw aching, every muscle in his body clenching as he reigned back what he so needed for a few moments longer. "Bucky- Bucky-" He'd meant to say something- a question, a whispered word of praise, but his mind had blanked out. It was all Bucky. _Just Bucky._ Nothing else mattered just- _"Bucky-"_ He gasped again, only vaguely aware that he was babbling, and that his lovers name kept falling from his lips, over, and over; a scratched record. 

One of those soft, perfect little gasps of pleasure slipped Bucky, and he pressed closer, Steve's hips twitching uselessly now and Bucky rolled his body downward. He shifted himself deeper on Steve's cock, quivering with need as his length stretching him wide, burning, aching. "Steve-" He whispered. Just once, just softly, and it dragged Steve's mind back to the moment. 

He caught his breath with a broken moan, catching Bucky's mouth in one more, desperate kiss as he grabbed Bucky's cock his his wide, hot hand, dragging over it. Bucky cried out, the added friction tipping him over the edge and-

Slick wetness spilled everywhere, splattering their chests, coating Steve's hand and wrist. Hot streaks of Steve's come spurted into Bucky's body, filling him, marking him in the sweetest, most intimate fashion. Steve felt wave after wave of intoxicating pleasure wring from his body, his cock still spilling release into Bucky's clenching body, until finally, he was spent. Steve slumped forward with a raw gasp, trembling, feeling the excess of his own release squelching down around the base of his cock, thick, and hot. He could feel Bucky heaving underneath him; overcome, _daze._ He could feel his heart fluttering under his ribs, and the warm metal of his arm around the back of his neck, holding him close. 

Steve was heavy, and hot on top of him, his weight pressing him into the mattress, closing him in; surrounding him with his warmth. Bucky's head was spinning. He couldn't think. He couldn't breath. _Steve loved him_. He _loved_ him. He- Bucky shivered, his arms involuntarily tightening, dragging Steve tighter, clinging to him as his legs flexed around his waist. The tiny movement tugged a moan from Steve's lips and he exhaled heavily into his lover's neck, unable to resist the hot slide of skin on skin as he rocked against him, still chasing the last traces of the orgasmic haze. A soft sigh slipped from Bucky at the gentle movement. He was utterly _spent;_ exhausted physically, and emotionally, but the stimulus against his hypersensitive skin felt amazing. Every shift, and brush of their naked bodies crackled through his nerves, reminding him that every second of this was real, and it was _his._ Reminding him that he was _wanted,_ and _loved._ Every touch reminded him that he was laying in bed with a man who'd loved him his whole life, and that for once in his living memory, he didn't need to be afraid. He'd given himself to Steve, totally, and completely, and Steve had taken that trusts and fostered it, soothing, and feeding it until it had blossomed into something Bucky could have never hoped to imagine. 

He never thought he'd trust anyone again.

He'd never thought he was capable of love, or that anyone was capable of loving him.

But he was wrong. He was _so_ fucking _wrong._

He trusted Steve. _Explicitly,_ unconditionally; with his very _life._ He _loved_ him. He loved him and it hurt more than he had thought a human could endure but he couldn't bring himself to care, because he wanted every moment of it. He wanted the ache in his chest every time he saw Steve smile, and the electricity that ran through him with every touch. He wanted every memory of Steve, every _second_ they'd spent together good or bad. He wanted to remember where they'd come from and what they'd been through and he wanted to love Steve until the day the pain killed him. And the thing he'd been most wrong about- the thing he'd never been _happier_ to be wrong about, was that Steve _loved him._

It was stupid, and made no sense. It was so _real,_ and so achingly tender it was almost cruel, but it was true- it was _true...Steve_ _loved him_...And it was the only thing that had dragged Bucky out of his own twisted, fucked up head. It was the only thing that kept him coming back, that made him better, that turned him into a man capable of deciding what he did with his own mind and body. It turned him into the man who could use his hand to bring pleasure, rather than pain and death, and had turned him into the man who could choose to be better; choose not to be the monster he'd always been told he was. 

He didn't care who he was _supposed_ to be from the past. He wasn't the dark haired boy with the dame on his arm and the heart that longed for his best friend. He wasn't a war hero who's sacrifice was remembered for most of a century. And he _wasn't_ a monster. He _wasn't_ a killer.

_He was Bucky Barnes._

And whoever Bucky Barnes was now, loved Steve with _every fiber_ of his being.

He shifted for the first time in countless minutes, taking his sleek metal fingers to Steve's jaw and tracing their strong line, tugging a slow, beautiful hum from his lover's perfect lips. Steve pressed into the touch, hazy, and sluggish with pleasure, the cooling sweat chilling his skin, breaking it out in prickles across his arms, and back, and legs. The touch of the metal raised gooseflesh on Steve's neck, but he leaned into it anyways, nuzzling in as Bucky's hand curled slowly, his knuckles rubbing tenderly along his skin.

"I love you." 

Steve's heart fluttered in his chest, and he blinked his eyes open, lashes crusted with dried moisture. He shifted slowly, gently; lifting his head until his chin rested between Bucky's collarbones, expressive blue eyes staring up at him with earnest affection. Bucky was returning his gaze, but his expression was soft, and thoughtful, and his fingers moved to trace Steve's mouth. He couldn't get enough of it. It was too beautiful. Too perfect, and he couldn't believe it was his to kiss, his to touch and brush with his fingers and tongue. _Perfect._  He cupped Steve's face, drawing him up, his warm, sweaty body dragging slowly along his as he laid the softest flutter of a kiss against his mouth. 

He wanted to say more. He wanted Steve to somehow know just how much that was true; just how much he'd made him feel. He wanted Steve to know that his chest ached every time he looked at him because he couldn't hardly breath around the love filling his ribcage; pressing outward, threatening to burst. But he wasn't a poet. He couldn't describe the fireworks that exploded in his stomach every time Steve's skin brushed his. He couldn't paint with words the constellations he saw in Steve's eyes, or the symphony he heard in every low, tender word. He couldn't compare the love in his chest the a sparking fire; sometimes warm, and hypnotic, other times burning; consuming him whole and leaving ash, white as pure snow, in its wake. He wasn't good with words, but Steve knew. Steve _always_ knew.

Steve returned the tiny brush of a kiss, his soft pink lips catching tenderly on his own. "I know..." He whispered against his mouth moving just slightly, just enough to tangling his fingers through his hair, feel the strands, soft, and sweaty against his skin. His hair had softened so much since Bucky started getting better nutrition, and regular washing, and Steve couldn't get enough of it. He dragged his fingernails across his scalp, coaxing a sigh from Bucky's swollen lips. "I love you too..." Steve murmured, Bucky's air whispering across his lips as he kissed him again. "So much.. _.So much..._ god Buck..."

Bucky's hand slid down Steve's exposed neck, slipping down over his hot, sweaty skin down to his ass. He curled his fingers, flesh, and metal pressing into Steve's tender skin as Bucky drew him in closer. His fingers gripped, and flexed gently, almost massaging as he took back a little control. He kissed Steve's jaw, the hot, wet curve of his mouth working against his skin as they lay, tangled in each other's naked bodies, shifting together as Bucky necked with him, slow, and sweet.

Steve went weak in his arms. As Bucky took back control, Steve relinquished it willingly, letting Bucky direct the pace as he sunk into him gratefully. He felt warm, and deliciously numb; spent from restraining his need for so long in order to make it good for Bucky. His eyes fell closed, and he let Bucky do _anything._ Anything he wanted. _Anything at all._

Bucky kept up his tender ministrations, groping, and massaging Steve's vulnerable skin, his hands moving up to kneed at the tension in his lower back, breathing low, contented sighs into Steve's ear as he kissed his neck and jaw, sucking gently on his ear lobe. He was limp on top of him, heavy, and real, and Bucky felt a thrill of satisfaction as Steve released a soft moan against the damp skin of his chest. They were a mess; both of them. Bucky's chest was sticky with his own orgasm. Steve was wet with cooling sweat, his soft cock having slid out of Bucky's ravaged body, now resting against the slicked inside of Bucky's thigh. Steve's hair stuck up in all directions, Bucky's still damp, and caught in Steve's gentle grip. 

"Are you really going to stay?" Steve whispered, and Bucky blinked in surprise. He was so limp, so utterly blissed out laying across his bare, muscular chest that Bucky had thought he'd fallen asleep. He blinked again, slower this time, processing.

"I said I wanted too..." Bucky murmured, a little uncertain, his mouth stilling on his neck. "You...said I was allowed _...Am_ I allowed?" 

Steve lifted his head quickly and Bucky immediately missed its heavy warmth against his collar, missed Steve's low, hot breath against his skin. "Of course-" Steve pressed hurriedly, looking up at Bucky's expression and feeling a tug in his gut as his expression shifted to relief. 

"Good..." Bucky murmured, a little knot still twisted between his brows. "I thought maybe..."

"I'd changed my mind?"

Bucky's cheeks darkened, and he dropped his eyes away, shame twisting in the pit of his stomach. He didn't need to say a word. _Of course_ that's what he'd been afraid of. Steve was so good to him...He treated him so well, like a human; not a monster, or a tool. He gave him the dignity of a name, and the choice of consent. He offered him food, and a home, and Bucky deserved none of it. Every time he stepped through Steve's door he feared his patience would run out; and every time, Steve looked like he was genuinely happy here was here. He spoke to him with warm affection, and touched him like he was something of value. _He loved him_. He wanted him to stay. But Bucky could never shake the fear. Because he knew he didn't deserve it, and he was afraid that it was only a matter of time until Steve knew that too.

For a long moment, Steve said nothing, his gaze flashing with conflicted hurt. He saw Bucky's face, saw the fear, and uncertainty; the need for validation, and the raw, passionate desire to be near him. But it was all colored, all tainted by what those monsters had done to him. Bucky's every feeling was twisted by what HYDRA had done, how they stripped his identity and self worth. He loved Steve, _but he didn't deserve it._ Steve loved him, _but it was only a matter of time until he saw him for the murderer he was._ He wanted to stay, _but monsters weren't allowed happiness; a life. Love._

"Bucky?"

Bucky couldn't lift his eyes. He was too ashamed, too sick at his own sadistic daydream that he should ever deserve to build a life with someone life Steve. He wasn't allowed this. He couldn't-

"James Buchanan Barnes, _look_ at me."

The command was soft, and direct, and saturated with the fierce, passionate love that Bucky saw in Steve's eyes and couldn't comprehend. His gaze snapped up, drawn to Steve like a magnate. It was an order unlike any he'd _ever_ been given. Orders came with pain, with a vicious slap and a demand that he relinquish more of his humanity; _kill, torture, submit._ Orders stripped his free will, made him submissive, and complacent to at the hands of the people who would use, and hurt him. But this order was different. It was firm, and _undeniably_ loving. It was hot, and passionate, and it seized Bucky's attention in a vice-like grip. The order had one purpose. Not to hurt, or humiliate, or demand, but to draw him in. _James Buchanan Barnes, I don't want you to miss a single word of this._

Steve's eyes locked with Bucky's, even, and hot, and deadly serious. His tongue slid out, wetting his lips as he held the stare until Bucky's focus had narrowed to him; only him. Nothing else in the world existed but what he was about to say. And that's just how Steve wanted it.

" _Look at me."_ He breathed softly, even though Bucky's gaze hadn't wavered, wide eyed, and breathless. Steve shifted up, taking Bucky's face in both hands and staring directly into the shattered depths of his soul. "I am _never_ going to stop wanting you."

Bucky felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs. The intensity of Steve's gaze sent shivers spilling down his spine, his bare body prickling with gooseflesh. _I am never going to stop wanting you._ It was so open, so flat out, and honest that Bucky's self-hatred wavered. His long-forged pattern of self punishment and internal abuse stuttered, suddenly off balance at the sheer ferocity of the love in Steve's voice. _I'm never going to stop wanting you._ It looped in his mind, over and over, seeping into the cracks of his shattered heart, binding it together with gold thread. It rang in his ears. It burned through his mind, and for the first time, Bucky found himself unable to disbelieve it. 

Slowly, the intensity softened from Steve's expression, and the fierce passion eased into gentle, tender lover. He wet his mouth again, gaze dropping to Bucky's stunned, parted lips, before raising to his eyes again, a tiny smile touching his own mouth. _"Never._ Okay? Y'got that Buck?" He pressed, still smiling faintly, and he nuzzled close, his breath whispering across his skin. " _Never_...I'm _always_ gonna want you... _Always have..."_

Bucky's breath hitched, his chest suddenly flushing with warmth, spreading up his neck and cheeks. He dropped his chin, Steve's forehead grazing his, his breath still warm on his mouth. "I can live with you?" He asked softly, his lashes kissing his cheeks as he blinked, steel blue orbs lifting to Steve's gaze. Steve nodded, kissing him softly but Bucky tipped down his chin, words pressing at his mouth, _begging_ to be spoken. "I can sleep with you? Here...i- in your bed or-"

A soft laugh broke from Steve's throat, and he nuzzled closer, shoulders shaking. "What ever you want-" He breathed. _"Whatever_ you want. _Anything._ Anything at all." Steve blurted, grinning now, his heart fluttering despite Bucky's slightly stunned expression. Steve was already getting swept along in the crushing relief and happiness that Bucky would be living with him, while Bucky was still stuck trying to tentatively feel out his restrictions. What he was _allowed._ What he _wasn't_ allowed. He wasn't used to a life without boundaries; without cuffs and iron bars. Steve caught Bucky in another kiss, his nose scrunching against his cheek as Bucky's lips twitched against his uncertainly. He broke back with a huff of laugher, eyelashes brushing Bucky's. "You can sleep here with me if that's what you want, or I can make up a room for you. There's an office just across that hall that wouldn't be to hard to-"

_"No-"_ Bucky blurted shortly, eyes snapping up. "No- No I...I _want_ to sleep here..." Steve smiled faintly, gently stroking his cheeks with his thumbs as he waited. There was more Bucky wanted to say. He could see it fluttering just behind his lips. He could hear the frenzy of activity in his mind. "Can I..." He started haltingly. "Can I use the kitchen- Can I shower here?" 

_"Buck."_ Steve said, his eyes flashing up to him, caught between humor, and pity. "Buck...This is going to be your _home._ You can do _whatever_ you want. You can use the washer and dryer, leave your shoes in the middle of the floor! You could wake up at four in the morning and decide to make brownies and I _wouldn't care,_ I'd just be...I'd just be _so fucking happy_ you were here..." HIs touch grew soft on Bucky's face, and the smile on his lips showed the impossible depth of the affection that Bucky had somehow come to deserve. "You can do _whatever_ you want..." He said again, as though to drive the point home. "I want you to be _happy_ here...I want you to feel _safe,_ and _relaxed_ cause this is supposed to be your home...I'm not gonna tell you that you're not allowed to sleep or shower, or make yourself food here.. _.Everything I have is yours now._.." He breathed, stroking his face, watching as his words sunk in. " _Everything_...Yours and mine both...Now don't get me wrong..." He smirked, something glinting in his perfect blue eyes. "I'm going to fight your ass for the last piece of _anything_ sweet in the house, and we're gonna find out who hogs all the blankets at night, and we're gonna fight over who gets the remote, because that's what _normal_ couples do." Steve pressed, before the grin faded to a tender smile, and he kissed Bucky one more time. "But don't _ever_ think that means that I wouldn't do _anything_ for you..."

Bucky shivered as Steve breathed the words into his mouth, and his eyes fell closed, stomach warm, heart fluttering. "Is that what we are?" He asked softly, and felt Steve falter, his lashes brushing his skin. 

"Sorry?" He murmured, drawing back just slightly. 

"A couple." Bucky tried, tentative, uncertain, because he'd never imagined he could love someone the way he loved Steve, and he'd never imagined his mind would be stable enough to allow him some kind of a life with someone. But the thought of having that with Steve...the thought of sharing his life with him, made Bucky's chest tighten with an emotion he was hard pressed to recognize. It was like happiness, but it made his eyes sting, and made his heart constrict until he thought it would burst. It was like disbelief but softer.

_It was like love._  

Steve blinked, looking at him fully now, no longer nestled against him, but pulled back just a few inches; just enough to look him in the eye. He hesitated, wanting- _needing_ to know before he let himself get carried away. He wanted to say _yes._ He wanted to say _of course_ they were a couple, but he couldn't know that for sure. This thing between them, it was _real,_ and it was _love,_ but he didn't know if Bucky was ready to put a name to it. "Do you want that?" He asked cautiously, studying his expression with care.

"To be your boyfriend?" Bucky clarified, the word tasting strange on his tongue. It was a word he'd never thought could apply to him. Someone's boyfriend...Someone who was loved enough that another person would pledge themselves to him, wholly, and completely. Someone who would trust him to lay with him as he slept, to touching him at his most vulnerable. Someone's lover. Someone's whole heart. 

Steve nodded.

Bucky's tongue brushed across his lips, his heart suddenly in his throat. His mouth felt dry, and sticky- but it was one word- just one word- just-

_"Yes."_

Steve's expression crumpled with relief, the look suddenly morphing into a smile as Steve's deep, perfect laugh rumbled through his chest. He leaned into him, tucking his face into his neck, still laughing as his arms tightened around his waist. He was shaking, and Bucky reached up, his hands finding their way to his back before wrapping around Steve's neck and shoulders, and he suddenly felt his eyes pricking with moisture, as a smile pulled at his mouth. 

Steve was his whole heart, and _he_ was _Steve's._ It wasn't a fair trade. Not really. Not when Steve's heart was so loving, and _good,_ and _clean;_ not when the thing he'd gotten in return was so fragile, and dirty, and broken. But Steve didn't seem to care. His muscles were slack with relief, his arms around in a tight, hot embrace. He couldn't stop laughing, the sound muffled against his neck as he quivered in Bucky's arms. He could feel his cheeks pulled back in a smile, his breath hot on his skin. He could feel wetness scattered through Steve's long, dark lashes. 

"Yeah?" Steve managed, his voice a little tight, and to Bucky's surprise, a low chuckle escaped his own lips. 

"Yeah." He breath, the sound of his laughter foreign in his ears, and Steve's head abruptly snapped up. 

He blinked rapidly, the heel of his hand coming up to scrub quickly over his damp lashes, a smile still lingering on his mouth. "Buck..." He whispered huskily, his cheeks aching, heart full to bursting. "You...just now...you laughed..." The words sounded sappy, and dumb falling from his kiss swollen lips, but Steve didn't care. The sound of his lovers laughter rang in his memory, and it was a sound Steve had been afraid he'd never hear again.

Bucky, looked up at him, slowly relaxing his hold around his neck to allow him a little space. He stared, the warmth in his chest still bubbling inside him. "Yeah..." He said quietly, before his eyes dropped and a tiny smile touched his lips. "I...didn't know I could still do that..."

Steve's smile softened, and he pressed in against him again, breathing in his scent, eyes falling closed. Everything was right. Everything was _perfect._ He didn't understand how that could be true, but it _was._ When he was a young, death had hung around him like a fog, and any second a sickness could wrench him away from the grinning boy he'd found happiness with. But it wasn't him who had been torn away. _It was Bucky_. War had snatched him from Steve's frail arms, and war _kept_ him, locked close, and bitter. Even when they'd come back together, and sickness could no longer threaten to steal Steve's life, _war_ still kept them apart. It kept them jumping at shadows, it kept them wondering, with every sunset, if a bomb might claim their lover in the night. And then war had _taken_ him, this time, further than Steve could follow. It dragged him down in snow and rock, with a scream that would haunt Steve's nightmares for the rest of his life. And then Steve had followed. He'd put the plane in the water, and consoled himself that he'd be with Bucky soon, but the ice had taken even _that_ from him; even in death.

And now, _somehow_ Bucky was here in his arms. He was wounded, and broken, and Steve's own heart was as scarred as his, but he was _here._ And for the first time in Steve's entire life...it was _perfect._

"Steve...?"

The word was soft, and tender, cautious, as though not sure he was listening. Steve hummed against his neck, breathing him in, absently kissing the warm, sensitive skin. "Yeah Bucky?" He breathed, rubbing his hands soothingly over his ribs, stroking his- _god-_ his _boyfriend's_ body tenderly. 

Bucky pressed his lips together for a moment, eyes falling closed, and he muffled a sigh of pleasure as Steve's stroked, and kissed his skin, touching him with reverent, wandering hands. After a moment, he let the sigh slip, and his eyes opened slowly, sleepily, a little smile lingering on his mouth. "If this is my home now...and you're my...my boyfriend...."

"Mhh hmm..." Steve encouraged, kissing up under his ear, mouthing at the tender flesh. 

"Can I shower with you?" 

Blood rushed to Steve's face, his mind stuttering for a second before he detected the smile in Bucky's voice. He lay there, frozen for a second more, before his mind caught up to his body, and his lashes lowered, slow, and seductive. He latched his mouth just below Bucky's ear, sucking a beautiful, _vividly_ purple mark onto his skin, feeling a curl of pleasure deep in his stomach, before he abruptly pulled away from Bucky's warmth. He braced over him, mouth canted up in a smirk, eyes glinting, and he suddenly leaned in and kissing Bucky firmly before sliding from the bed. 

"Come find out."

Bucky blinked, his heart jerking foolishly in his chest, mouth buzzing from Steve's kiss. He could feel his blood pounding hot around his body, his mouth turned up in an incredulous smile and he found himself staring as Steve came to a stop; his powerful, naked body silhouetted against the dim light of the bathroom doorway. _God_ he was perfect. He was too fucking _perfect-_ too gentle- and patient- and sweet, and Bucky had _no idea_ how he'd _ever_ gotten so lucky to call him his. Steve was _his_ and _he_ was _Steve's,_ and nothing else mattered. 

Lifting himself out of bed, Bucky slipped over to him, his movement soft, and tentative, almost shy, as he came up behind him, his hands grazed over his waist, framing his hips. Steve didn't move, still braced in the doorway, his hands resting on the frame; trusting. Bucky's chest nudged against Steve's back and he nuzzled into his neck, his hands rubbing over his hipbones, fingers tips exploring, brushing his stomach, and cock, and thighs. His mouth found it's way to his neck, and Bucky kissed him there just once, just sweetly, before lifting his chin, his sinful mouth grazing over the hot shell of Steve's ear.

"We gonna stand out here all day- Or are you gonna clean me up?" 

 


	13. Epiloge

He was never going to get used to it.

He was never going to get his head around it.

He was going to die before the reality well and truly sunk in. Before he could adjust to sitting at his own kitchen table, sunlight streaming through the open windows, and seeing Bucky Barnes in his boxers, cooking bacon on the stovetop. It was never going to stop feeling like a blessing when he woke up with the love of his life in his arms; when Bucky would kiss him to sleep at night, or curl up against his side as Steve sat reading in the evenings. Even four weeks after Bucky had come to live with him for good, Steve still could hardly believe it. 

It wasn't all smooth.

On good days, Bucky still tiptoed around certain parts of their shared life. He treated the apartment -his _home-_ like a _privilege,_  rather than a necessity of life. When Steve stepped out of the shower in the morning, the bed was always meticulously made. If Bucky cooked anything in the kitchen, it was always put back exactly as he'd found it, without a dish or container out of place, like he was still uncertain it was really _his_ to use. Steve wished that just _once_ he'd leave the pans on the stove. On good days, Bucky talked and laughed with Steve, even though he still flinched if a door slammed in an adjacent room. On good days he indulged in the intimacy he'd been starved of, even though he couldn't always believe Steve when he told him he was loved. But there were still bad days...

On bad days, Bucky couldn't get out of bed. On bad days, he disassociated. He didn't remember himself or Steve. He lashed out like a trapped animal, only to come down minute later to find Steve pinned to the floor underneath him, his metal hand crushing his windpipe; his body all but lifeless underneath him. On bad days he clung to Steve, choking out broken apologies; shuddering, _begging_ Steve to put him away so that he couldn't hurt him anymore.

But he knew Steve never would, and a part of him was grateful. 

Bucky loved Steve more than he loved anything in his backwards, twisted universe. He was an irreplaceable part of his life, and the very human part of him that had been growing, and blossoming under Steve's tender care would be tore to shreds if he were to be ripped away from him, but Bucky would be willing to sacrifice every scrap of happiness he had in order to keep Steve safe; even from him. So he took extra care. He never let himself forget that Steve was wounded too, and that he wasn't the only one who had bad days.

Steve's manifested mostly in nightmares. Every now and again, Bucky would be stirred by Steve twitching in his arms. At first, he'd ignore it, and then Steve would begin shifting, and squirming; choked off gasps, and whimpers falling from his parted lips as he unconsciously tried to free himself from the arms around him. Broken cries of 'No- no- _Brock-"_ tore from him, and he'd arch under Bucky, hands pushing, lashes wet with tears, until Bucky could shake him awake. Steve's eyes would always fly open with a ragged gasp, and suddenly the air would leave his lungs as he found himself, safe, wrapped in the arms of the one he loved. Bucky offered Steve the same gentle patience with which he treated him. He waited for confirmation to touch; to kiss. He whispered to him how much he loved him, how beautiful he was. He stressed Steve's consent above all else, and Steve did the same for him. 

Maybe they were both damaged. Maybe they were both broken, shattered reflections of the boys they had used to be when they were young, and careless. But it no longer mattered. They _were_ broken, but it didn't weaken their love. If anything it made it _stronger._

Steve knew Bucky's mind was scarred. Bucky knew Steve's heart was fragile, and because of their own damage -their own hurt- they were able to treat their parter with all the more tenderness, and understanding. Steve knew what it felt like to be used without your consent. Bucky knew how it felt to be manipulated, and abused. They'd each walked through their own personal hell, and maybe they were still walking, but now, they didn't have to do it alone. 

They had each other. It was all they needed, and it was the one thing they'd been forced to live without for a _very_ long time. 

But that didn't matter anymore. The years Bucky had been chained up in the tattered remains of his own mind, grasping at threads as they were yanked from his grip, faded to a distant ache; a memory that could never really be forgotten, but _only_ a memory none the less. The hundreds of nights Steve had been forced to sleep alone, blurred into nothing more than a bad dream. His reality was better; his life with Bucky. It was more than Steve would have _ever_ hoped for, but it was _his_ all the same. Bucky was _alive,_ his was his to hold; to _kiss,_ and _touch,_ and _love._ He was his to indulge, and to indulge in. Steve pampered Bucky whenever he would let him. He spoiled him with home made meals that Bucky had loved as a kid; recipes for sweet rolls, and breads that Sarah Rogers had made for them when her two troublesome boy tumbled into the house, covered in dust, bruises, and scratches. He showed him pictures of them from ages past, pictures of them as children, as soldier, and a few, sacred, _secret_ photos of them as lovers. They had been dangerous possessions at the time, but neither Steve or Bucky could ever face getting rid of them. So they'd kept them, close, and hidden; stealing glances at the soft, intimate photos whenever they were apart, and the ache of loneliness grew too painful to bear.

Bucky wasn't to be outdone though. For every sweet, pampering gesture Steve bestowed on him, Bucky returned with one of his own. They were simpler, but Steve loved them none the less. He began bringing flowers for Steve on a semi-regular basis, and always fumbled over his delivery. He cleaned the entire apartment when Steve was out for the day, or drew a hot tub full of water from him when he came home from long hours of work. But maybe the most complete gesture of Bucky's love was taking Steve, anytime of the day or night, and laying with him in their shared bed, kissing every inch of skin he could reach and breathing reverent words against his soft flesh; touching him like he was holy. It made everything melt away. It softened the weariness of hours of work rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. It cooled the burning loneliness in his chest from being apart from him, and soothed the deep ache in the ragged scars left behind by loosing Bucky so many years ago. They spent long hours like that; kissing, touching, sometimes just laying facing one another, and drinking in the sight of their lover, knowing how impossibly lucky they were to be here.

It wouldn't always be calm. In time, they were going to have to face the world. There would be people who would want Bucky imprisoned, or strapped to the electric chair, for crimes in which he'd wanted no part. There would be questions, and scandals, and outrage that the nations golden boy had harbored the most wanted figure in most of the known world. There would be an eruption of prejudice, and bigotry when the media sunk their teeth into his and Bucky's relationship. The headlines would twist the truth; they would drag him and Bucky into the limelight and publicly crucify them, but Steve didn't care what they thought. He had lost Bucky too many times. He'd lost him for too long to _ever_ give up on him over something so trivial as his public image. They could scream, and spit, and strip them of their dignity, and privacy. But there would _always_ be the more important people, the people who understood, the ones who knew the whole story. There would always be Sam, and Natasha, and other like them, but more than that, there would always be _Steve._

The government, and the media, and S.H.I.E.L.D could all take their shot. They could all come after them, and Steve just _dared_ anyone to try and hurt the man he loved, because he'd tear down mountains if it meant keeping Bucky safe, and he knew Bucky would do the same for him. They would fight, and struggle, and claw to keep the spark of happiness they'd been allowed after so many years of suffering. They'd been torn away from each other too many times, but _never again._

Steve was going to hold Bucky close and defend his right to life, and love, and freedom; and Bucky would cradle Steve's fragile heart in the warm palms of his hands, and never let _anyone_ hurt him again. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone, that's a wrap. I can wait to hear what you all think, favorite part? Overall impressions? Anything you want to throw my way! I can't tell you how much your comments encourage and motivate me. You're all the best!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work like this that I've tried, so throw a little feedback. :) I would love to hear you guys' thoughts, comments, and suggestions for future chapters.


End file.
